Turning Steel
Ya wake up in the morning,
The dawn's as black as night.
Your mother's shouting up the stairs,
And you know she's winning the fight.
Well, you best venture out of bed, me lad,
'Cause you know it's getting late,
Then it's down the stairs and up the street
And through the factory gate.
Turning steel, how do you feel,
As in the chuck you spin?
If you felt like me you'd roll right out
And never turn again.
Wet and bleak the morning
As you squeeze in through the gate.
As you clock in, the bell will ring.
Eight hours is your fate.
Off comes your coat all wet and damp,
And ''Right, lads'' is the cry.
With and eye on the lathe and the other on the clock
You'll wish the time would fly.
The gaffer's walkin' down the shop
And so it's work ya must.
The dizzy, grinding, groaning metal,
The hot air and the dust.
But I'm often thinking of me girl
While walking through the park,
While gazing at the bloomin' steel
And a million flying sparks.
Old Tom Black last friday,
His final bell did ring.
With his hair as white as his face beneath,
And his oily, sunken skin.
Well he's made a speech and he's bid farewell
To a lifetime working here.
As I shook his hand, I knew that he
Had labored fifty years.
And when at last me time it comes
And I can leave this place,
I'll walk out past the charger's desk
And I'll never turn me face.
Out through them gates into the sun
I'll leave this place behind,
With but one regret, for the lads I've left
To carry on the grind.
Turning Steel Video (MV)
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Turning Steel
Ya wake up in the morning,
The dawn's as black as night.
Your mother's shouting up the stairs,
And you know she's winning the fight.
Well, you best venture out of bed, me lad,
'Cause you know it's getting late,
Then it's down the stairs and up the street
And through the factory gate.
Turning steel, how do you feel,
As in the chuck you spin?
If you felt like me you'd roll right out
And never turn again.
Wet and bleak the morning
As you squeeze in through the gate.
As you clock in, the bell will ring.
Eight hours is your fate.
Off comes your coat all wet and damp,
And ''Right, lads'' is the cry.
With and eye on the lathe and the other on the clock
You'll wish the time would fly.
The gaffer's walkin' down the shop
And so it's work ya must.
The dizzy, grinding, groaning metal,
The hot air and the dust.
But I'm often thinking of me girl
While walking through the park,
While gazing at the bloomin' steel
And a million flying sparks.
Old Tom Black last friday,
His final bell did ring.
With his hair as white as his face beneath,
And his oily, sunken skin.
Well he's made a speech and he's bid farewell
To a lifetime working here.
As I shook his hand, I knew that he
Had labored fifty years.
And when at last me time it comes
And I can leave this place,
I'll walk out past the charger's desk
And I'll never turn me face.
Out through them gates into the sun
I'll leave this place behind,
With but one regret, for the lads I've left
To carry on the grind.
Ya wake up in the morning,
The dawn's as black as night.
Your mother's shouting up the stairs,
And you know she's winning the fight.
Well, you best venture out of bed, me lad,
'Cause you know it's getting late,
Then it's down the stairs and up the street
And through the factory gate.
Turning steel, how do you feel,
As in the chuck you spin?
If you felt like me you'd roll right out
And never turn again.
Wet and bleak the morning
As you squeeze in through the gate.
As you clock in, the bell will ring.
Eight hours is your fate.
Off comes your coat all wet and damp,
And ''Right, lads'' is the cry.
With and eye on the lathe and the other on the clock
You'll wish the time would fly.
The gaffer's walkin' down the shop
And so it's work ya must.
The dizzy, grinding, groaning metal,
The hot air and the dust.
But I'm often thinking of me girl
While walking through the park,
While gazing at the bloomin' steel
And a million flying sparks.
Old Tom Black last friday,
His final bell did ring.
With his hair as white as his face beneath,
And his oily, sunken skin.
Well he's made a speech and he's bid farewell
To a lifetime working here.
As I shook his hand, I knew that he
Had labored fifty years.
And when at last me time it comes
And I can leave this place,
I'll walk out past the charger's desk
And I'll never turn me face.
Out through them gates into the sun
I'll leave this place behind,
With but one regret, for the lads I've left
To carry on the grind.