The furnace wakes before the dawn, The rollers start to scream, Another order's come along, Another deadline dream. The foreman's pacing up and down, The contracts running hot, The city wants a thousand tons, We'll give them all we've got. But every eye drifts now and then To where the calendar hangs, A circle drawn in blood-red pen, Like distant churchyard clangs. Keep the steel hot, keep the presses fed, Keep your tie straight, your hair well-combed. Smile for the clients, nod your head, Pretend you're ordinary folk. But count the days, count the nights, Till silver moonlight floods the hill. We've earned our leave, we've earned our rights, And the orders can wait until. The accountants think we're workaholics, The customers think the same. They wonder how we fill the dockets And never miss a claim. Well, cousin works the midnight crew, And auntie drives the crane. My brother welds the support beams, My sister runs the trains. We pull together when it's rough, We always have somehow. A pack survives by sharing loads, And that's still true right now. Keep the steel hot, keep the presses fed, Keep your tie straight, your hair well-combed. Smile for the clients, nod your head, Pretend you're ordinary folk. But count the days, count the nights, Till silver moonlight floods the hill. We've earned our leave, we've earned our rights, And the orders can wait until. The moon's not curse nor punishment, No beast we fear inside. It's just our oldest family feast, The reason elders smile. The foundry gates are shuttered then, The phones all disconnected. No overtime, no emergency, No contract gets selected. The shareholders can howl instead, The brokers make their plea. One night each month belongs to us, As it's always meant to be. The blast furnace cools. The ledgers close. The managers all disappear. The mountain paths fill up with songs That only kin can hear. No neckties there, No steel-toed boots, No quotas left to meet. Just moonlit woods and old refrains, And thirty cousins eating meat. Keep the steel hot, keep the presses fed, Keep the orders moving down the line. Work is work and steel is steel, And the mill will do just fine. But count the days, count the nights, Till the silver rises bright and still. Because every worker needs a holiday, And ours comes over the hill.
