Without a Card

Iron Road


“I ought to get a large reward
For never owning a Union card;
I’ve never grumbled, I’ve never struck,
I’ve never mixed with the Union truck,
But I must be going my way to win,
So, open, Peter and let me in.”
St Peter sat and shook his staff,
Despite his high office, he had to laugh.

Said he, with a fiery gleam in his eye,
“Who’s tending this gate – you or I?
5I’ve heard of you with your gift of gab,
You’re what is known on earth as a scab.”
Thereupon he rose to his stature tall,
And pressed a button upon the wall;
And said to the imp who answered the bell,
“Lead this fellow around to Hell.”

“Tell Satan to give him a seat alone
On a red-hot griddle up near the throne –
But stay – even the Devil can’t stand the smell
Of a cooking scab on a griddle in hell;
It would cause a revolt, a strike, I know,
If I send you down to the imps below,
So, back to your master on earth, and tell
That they don’t even want any scabs in Hell.”

The Railway Issue 1929