The Potato Picker

For the potato picker life is tough
He knows what it's like to live rough
The work is hard, the pay is small
One could hardly call it life at all.

This spendthrift looked down upon race
Like to move from place to place
They live in stinky old cow sheds
And sleep on rotten flea bitten beds.

The most of them go to the pub at night
Their's is a very lonely plight
The signs in restaurants read clear
'No potato pickers wanted here'

They work so hard for little pay,
Their backs bent to the sky all day
Yet the 'Tatie Hoker' stands apart
As a happy soul with a kind heart.

Oh what a way to live one's life
Living in grimy shacks without a wife
Such is the potato picker's lot
The man society has forgot.

by Francis Duggan

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