Close It Down

Fifteen long years in the strip mill at Ravenscraig, twenty-five more in the bowels of the earth, digging for fuel to fire the bosses who turn around and tell us that we've no more work. Close it down, shut it. Not enough profit. Padlock the gates, aye, and send the men home. No sir, not viable; we've become liable for the working class people, whose work is all done. Long days in the shipyards, quietly waiting, redundancy notice in holiday pay. Privatized power for fortunate people with shares in the marketplace ready to trade. (Chorus) Fat cats are sharing the cream of the booty while people lay shivering in boxes of card. No jobs today; come back tomorrow. We'll tell you the same thing, it isn't so hard. (Chorus) Lay off the workers, the fathers, the sons; people who spent their lives under the ground earning a wage for a family to keep all their heads above water, 'til the next work is found.