The Prospector - Michael Chapman

There prospector came this morning

Looking for holes in the ground

I asked him quite politely

'What on earth is going down?'

And he says 'Down in the ground

There’s a hole I think we found, my friend'

The driver, he came later

At least he hadn’t gone far

The other went to weather, following a star

And holding his heavy load

From where we were to where we are, my friend

And a farmer comes in roody faced

From a winter field

His collars up, his hat is down

His features for the shield

He’s pacing out his acres, working out the yield

My friend

The teacher she comes out from school unsteady on her feet

I wish that she would learn to drink a Whiskey not so neat

Her wayward ways force her to change

Her legs in for a seat, my friend

And the preacher, he comes in from the cold

His wisdom to disperse

And I listen to his sermon

But he’s making matters worse

From what he says we’ve got no chance

Of heaven here on earth, my friend