My Dad the Coalman

My Dad, the Coalman My father was a coalman ,when I was a little girl Five ‘o’ clock each morning, coal-sacks on his shoulder he would hurl Behind the wheel of a lorry at fourteen years of age No driving licence did he have, for he was under-age My dad he was a strapping lad, what you would call robust Handsome, though you couldn't tell, face covered in coal-dust When he would come home at night, he was quite a scary sight All I could see was big brown eyes and teeth so pearly-white He'd perch me on his saddle and wheel me up and down the lane Even though he'd worked a ten hour shift and was in a lot of pain He used to tell us stories, they always made us laugh He told us about a lady who wanted her coal put in the bath One day he was approached by an expectant mum called Florrie She told him that her waters had broken, so he took her on the lorry When she arrived at the hospital, her skin and clothes were black She'd got there safely in one piece, surrounded by Nutty-Slack Some customers would pay upfront, my dad his lesson learnt When customers refused to pay for coal already burnt If someone was short of money, he would fill up their coal-scuttle But if he told his dad, the boss, his response would be unsubtle Hardly anyone has coal fires now and this makes me very sad But lots of people in the town remember the Coalman, ‘my dad'