Picking up pieces of coal
And dropping them into my pocket
Wiping my hands down on my shirt yeah
Lost another piece of my soul
I have no problem you see
With a wealth of 900 thousand
More than one man should be proud of
Pick up another little piece of coal
riches under rags
rich dark veins I hide
witness the public throwing stones at my dead muscle, skin and bones
in a coffin on a hearse in southgate street
I got beaten for pulling up roots
They didn’t know I was the master
Said I looked like a vagrant disaster
Not the owner of a turnip plot
What became of my gold?
Was I the inspiration
For a seasonal Dickens creation
And a philpot with my profile bold?
How will my story be told?
A miser mean and cold
At the roadside looking for dirty little pieces of coal