Every Valley - Public Service Broadcasting

The sun rose first on the dead and on the sleeping

On the ruins of Victorian ironworks

On the terraced roofs of the miners

On the weekday pubs, and the Sunday chapels

And on the grimy, frowny hills

Every little boy’s ambition in my valley was to become a miner

There was the arrogant strut of the lords of the coal face

One could stand on street corners and look at the posh people pass with hostile

eyes

Insulting were these cold looks, because they were the kings of the underworld