Kilroy Was Here Ewan MacColl

Who was here when they handed out the heavy jobs
Jobs with the hammer, the pick and shovel
Who choked in the foundry, froze at the fish dock
Eight days to the week

Who was here with a mile of rock above him
Three foot seam in the darkness crouching
Stinging sweat in his eyes, pounded rock in his spittle
A hundred minutes to the hour

Who was here in the furrowed field stooped over
Pain shapes the question in in bone and muscle
Roots and hands competing, fumbling, groping
Twenty eight hours to the day

Who was here in the world of steel and clamour
Feeding leviathan in his cavern
Breathing the hot sharp stink of metal
Five weeks to the month

Hey you, dogsbody, what do they call you?
Who clears up the mess when the fight is over?
Who carries the broom, the mop and the bucket?
Thirty-six months to the year

Smooth-faced old-boy men instructed him
Geldings programmed his energy
Coached in running by man whose arches had fallen
Dead men told him how to live