The Old Jail

When the day fades, thick bars clang, the single spot of light

Behind the old jail's stone tower fades into the night.

For undying faith to exist, a shred of hope is required,

So dies the fiercely burning heart of the sons of Molly Maguire.

*****

We don't know what photons are, but one cannot be found

In this pit called Solitary, where Truth and Reason are bound

By ropes and chains invisible, by robber barons' greed

For mounds and banks of gold and silver, insatiable, boundless, need.

We die with broken backs, crippling debt, for debauchers to acquire,

Thus are filled with righteous rage the sons of Molly Maguire.

I tried to rally fellow workers, talk of better days,

Urge them to think beyond this fog of smoke and coal-filled haze,

But betrayed by Pinkerton and his crooked lot,

We sit here in inhumane conditions, to be forgotten and rot.

I'll only leave this prison via coffin, by bribed judge convicted,

My wife will have just three days to re-marry – or be evicted.

My kids will never know me, they claim it reeks of danger,

My ideals poisoned the whole lot, they're better raised by stranger.

So here we sit, the living dead, watch aspirations expire,

From the scaffold's balcony, view the sons of Molly Maguire.

I wish I had the conviction of the one in cell seventeen

Perhaps his ghostly handprint on the wall would help me walk between

The fragile worlds 'tween hell and heaven, and give me a glimpse

Of a life in future times, when this awful fight makes sense.

I see a woman, middle age, staring in the pit

Where my body breathed its last few breaths before I quit.

Tell me, is there equality? Is there better wages, lifestyle?

Are my children's children free of comp'ny stores? Meanwhile

I lay here on a pad of paper, not even proper bed,

Wondering if this conversation exists outside my head?

Can you see me, feel the yearning of a soul's desire?

Can you answer the haunting call of a son of Molly Maguire?

I hear you well, my ghostly friend, my God, so young, so young,

Your sudden, untimely, unjust death is a bell that's not unrung.

We still fight for workers, fair wages, breaks for renters,

But it is still an uphill climb against the one percenters.

Each tragedy breeds better laws, with workers' rights expansions,

We rail against the packers and the pack rats in their mansions.

Still the war continues against injustice, theft, inflation,

Conflicts in economic wars, divides that split the nation.

But still we fight, my ghostly friend, with sinew, might, and mien,

Rest easy, you are not forgotten – you did not die in vain.

Mingle with the tourist crowds, respond when they inquire,

Tell them of the brutal struggle of the sons of Molly Maguire.

*****

Did I dream? Am I insane? Did I have revelation?

Or did I reach into the future for some soothing conversation?

A ghostly handprint beckons, my lifetime's end draws near,

I will not rail against the tyranny for inmate's ears to hear.

I look up from a hole of darkness at the last flickering light

Which goes out when the warden eases into his soft bed at night.

Will you be watching carefully when the last warden retires?

So rise up the spirits of the sons of Molly Maguire.