His name was Tukimba and he landed in Virginia in 1639.
On slave ship so stacked, between shackled racks he’d die within short time.
Despite infrequent gripes, his back received “stripes” from leather whipping line.
He worked tobacco plantation in blossoming Christian nation being black his only “crime.”
His story most common, his bones lie at rest and surely you know I offer no jest
For Tukimba’s broken body does so attest and
His, were the hands that built America.
Her name was Greta Von Kason, her Dad a stone mason, and they sailed for America in 1751.
The voyage was hell, fever, scurvy and smells,
Yet the Von Kason’s kept faith fruition would come.
They ate rotted meat, consumed putrid water, prayed at God’s feet, a necessity to some.
Arriving in Boston, they soon were so lost in, the burgeoning city from mansion to slum.
Her story was tragic, her world fell apart.
Dad passed away soon from a weakened old heart.
And Greta would cook, clean and sew till life did depart and
Hers, were the hands that built America.
His name was Seamus O’Brien and he worked the New York docks
Arriving in 1817 he oft’ wore out the arms of imperceptible sluggish clock
They called him “dirty Irish” or “Mick” when fighting brogue attempting to talk
And he died with knife in his back, some laughed while others, they just gawked
His story constitutes a long hard struggle to survive
He left a “consumed wife” and four children scarcely alive
The “states” he’d dreamt was where they would live, thrive and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Annie Waters and she lived in a dorm in Lowell
Massachusetts textile worker from 1840 was now her long term role
The day began at four AM the morning’s often bitter cold
Many times it seemed when she dreamed the mill did own her soul
Her story concluded with resistance and mutiny
Oppressors assured her she had no impunity
She hung self with rope she’d face no more injustice or inbred scrutiny and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Roger Hawkins and he toiled on tiny farm
The crops his life, his love his wife, he meant no soul no harm
A ramshackle house on side of hill, a reddish tinted barn
The days were grueling and long, they oft’ worked arm in arm
His story was over in 1848
A sliver of river on his land sealed his fate
One bullet to his head ‘neath the moon near his gate and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Hattie Hanson and she moved west towards an unknown shore
Robert her husband and two small children left Ohio in ‘54
“There’s gold in them thar hills.” They’d heard the chant many times before
Five years of ordeal oft’ with no meal and precious little of the flaxen ore
“Bob” passed in ’59 a broken, spent, heartsick man
One child died and one child lived he’d never touch a pan
Hattie Hanson, stooped and bent spent five years looking wan and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Wung Lu, sledgehammer in hand, he pounded on the rails
1869 was a time of backbreaking toil and myriad travails
Intense heat and bitter cold left the inner soul to wail
One year after being sent, Lu was content, to get his first piece of mail
The joy soon gone like rising sun, no longer did Lu smile
His wife had died, the letter decried, away six thousand miles
Dreams now shattered, one dollar in pocket, Lu walked…to his “last trial” and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Peggy Hodgkins, she labored in paper mill
Beginning at five and now eight no respite came until
‘T was the year of our Lord 1881 they offered no pain pill
Peggy’s slight fingers crushed in roller her bones attest it still
Her story not unlike many a child
Cigar smoking “men” exploited and smiled
When telephones came, only one hand she dialed and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Heime Ludkin, McCormick Harvester Works was where
He worked long hours and fought with police, four workers killed unfair
On May 4, 1886, a meeting was called; the place Haymarket Square
Before the night was over Heime Ludkin simply wouldn’t care
Police en masse, the meeting done, a bomb was thrown, the explosion loud
Shots were fired, cops and protesters killed, Heime’s head bullet plowed
Eight men unjustly convicted of murder, yet only “one” was in the crowd and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Bessie Jefferson; she was a daughter of Jim Crow
She cooked and cleaned and was demeaned by white folks you don’t know
Bessie never went to school, ‘t was best to keep the black folks slow
She bore white man’s child and was reviled on both sides of the road
There were many like Bessie it must be confessed
“Black folks were clever” but white folks “knew best”
She died alone ‘02 clutched in poverty’s nest…and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Walter Polanski, ideological Socialist, meat packer by profession
In ’07 Packingtown, better known as Chicago, “Polski” had a confession
Lard vats boiled intense, pig guts went in and some rats…a concession
No longer able to hold it in Walter succumbed to his obsession
He held a sign at Fifth and Vine reading “Guess what’s in your Lard”
Mrs. Polanski was deathly afraid and she prayed for him often and hard
Our spoken words, oft’ unheard, were spoken “over” Walter at the graveyard and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Alice Fordham, member of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union
On March 25, 1911 she joined 46 others in front of the Triangle Shirtwaist Company for a “fiery” communion.
Her husband always drunk, with four mouths to feed, shackled in and claimed by a sewing machine seemed the only solution
On this horrific day she would be ascribed a fate spelled out in the Devil’s Constitution
Nine floors up, chained, locked up the fire spread from floor to floor
Fireman’s ladders couldn’t make it, the flames on flesh, Alice can’t make it, she tosses few coins through window to poor
The perpetrators of this crime, never did a day of time, a clever mouthpiece performing his toxic chore and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was George Pampadorous, his nose somewhat porous, a riveter forty six floors in the sky
1919 was the year, George had no fear and skyscrapers the rage paid George a good wage enough for “two” pieces of pie
One chilly morn’ George lost his grip and took a slip his body cart wheeling soon to die
The other men gathered, poor George had been splattered, still looking up with two dead eyes
For six years George knuckled down in New York town breathing in the cleansing air
He’d just had a talk, on Coney Island walk, with pretty girl, the result… of his friends dare
The wedding date set, one month ago met, captivated George hadn’t a care and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Lucy Smith and she worked in the secretarial pool
A lovely girl she typed with one hand and with the other staved off lecherous fools
The date was 1922 the place Chicago and Lucy had dropped out of high school
Mom had died three years ago and her new step-mother was callous and cruel
Asked to work late one night Lucy was really put on the spot
Raped by her boss, he said her job might be lost, she hadn’t typed a single dot
Staggering home, battered, confused, step-mother implied she deserved what she got and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Herman Schneider and in ‘33 he worked the bowels of Earth
A West Virginia coal miner was never once paid what he was worth
With pallid skin and blackened lungs he rarely laughed so devoid of mirth
Then came the day they reduced his pay and he and fellow miners felt a rebirth
The owner of the hellish hole drove up in shining black Cadillac
He told the men “if you know what’s good for you then,” you’ll go marching back
The men held out for weeks until Herman was felled by gunfire’s crack and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Trixie Thomas and she plied her trade at welder’s shop
‘T was ’43 and husband Lee was on Pacific island hop
Eight hours a day, child on the way, Hitler, Tojo must be stopped
She did her part with stalwart heart, slept and dined on wartime slop
To sacrifice for country, she never gave a second thought
Watched upper class acting crass wearing minks and jewels they’d bought
Yet Trixie never flinched or failed and never once was overwrought and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Walter Biltner and he’d just spent three years in hell
From polished deck he saw orange speck, ‘t was Golden Gate it sure looked swell
Kamikazees, lousy chow, many of Walter’s comrades had fell
The view of bay scant miles away had placed him under magic spell
Walter’s girl was on the docks with arms awaiting that first embrace
Walking down the gangplank the tears were streaming down his face
In ’46 the war was nix his machinist skills would find new place and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Mary Strongfingers she bore proud blood of Navajo
In ’52 ‘neath ‘zona blue the carpets she wove were treasures although
Mary gazed at distant stars, listened to passing cars, yearning for world she did not know
Trapped ‘tween Joshua trees, she labored on knees, knowing of no place to go
Came a day, her hair now gray, she left for lights of big city
Fingers bent, knees bowed, Mary had never been very pretty
Alone and spent, she paid her rent, until the spirits came ‘tis a pity and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Tim Finnigan, New York cop, from the 23rd precinct, he walked a long beat
Five days a week, since ’33, for 25 years he greeted the citizens he met on the streets
Barkeeps, Deli owners, Pawnbrokers, Shark loaners he jested or arrested on tired, aching feet
On Saturday night he and the Missus drank a few beers and asked Luigi for spaghetti to eat
“Timmy” was a stout, proud man his smile infectious, his justice was square
Three days before “returning his badge” he walked and whistled, Officer Finnigan hadn’t a care
Six days later the scene was grim for they buried Tim…
A Liquor store holdup had parted his hair, and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Kathy Pearson, housewife, raiser of kids, often called “Mrs.”
She bandaged cuts, did the shopping, cooked the meals and generally washed the dishes
In ’65, with the world scintillatingly alive, she harbored secret and unspoken wishes
Husband Harold seemed apathetic, sometimes apoplectic, although he found her apple pie delicious
As life passed by, she would often cry, drink some vodka and dry her tears
She watched her aspirations fade away and focused on the children’s years
“Mom” to her family, she rarely engaged in revelry and her dreams now live in burnished mirrors and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Jose Garcia and he worked the fields from sun up ‘til late
June ’69 was the calendar’s time and Jose sold his labor from state to state
While Americans took for granted the crisp fruits and vegetables they saw on their plate
He soothed his blistered hands with camphor not suspecting his ultimate fate
A lovely girl, his wife named Pearl, looked out for their kids thinking Jose so fine
He sent home money every two weeks and called on the phone from time to time
Chavez and Huerta drove the pike, a united strike and Jose was wrapped in barbed wire twine and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Miss Watson and she taught fifth graders at Roosevelt Elementary
With patience, kindness and resolve she oft’ made impossible seem rudimentary
The parents of her pupils admired her scruples and lavished praise most complementary
‘T was ’74 and counting fifty plus four she’d imparted her wisdom beyond half a century
She expired one bell ringing a startled student bringing a paper he’d had problem with start
A lifelong spinster, no husband, no kinster, the cause of her death was most logical part
For the sage school teacher, reminded the preacher, had died from an always engaged “enlarged heart” and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Arlie Bateman and he wheeled a double trailer, Kentworth semi-truck.
Like his Daddy afore him he figured eighteen wheels ‘neath him spelt pride, earning honest Buck.
He’d heard other guys, with grumblin’ sighs, sayin’ drivin’ a big rig is “just my luck.”
But Arlie could get gnarly if the conversation implied he was some kind of “good ol’ boy schmuck.”
Drove for over thirty years through blizzards, fog, sleet, snow and heat
‘T was his pleasure, a roadside treasure, to talk to good folks gettin’ bite to eat
In ’81 Arlie was done, his back out of whack, he walks with cane on swollen feet and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Tracey Lawton and she was headed to a place where they say it’s kinda warm
The time was early in ’91, crude jokes, no fun, for this was a hell called “Desert Storm”
A helicopter pilot, if it flew she could fly it, she remembered last days at the Air Force dorm
Snapshots of Mom and Dad, her eyes welled up sad, then Lieutenant Lawton was back to form
She’d fought so damn hard to make it here, once savagely raped after casual beer
Her superiors, adamant of course, protecting interests of the Air Force, ignore the “occasional” lecherous leer
And if she’d told herself once plus million times quite clear, NOTHING would force her to live in a mirror and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Robert Penlen, a Kansas native he was a Doctor by profession
He was no one’s fool, in med school and was rather staid…his own confession
Whilst engaged in his studies, he made few buddies and was imbued with obsession
Upon graduation with thoughts of equal nation, he’d aid female, surely this was no transgression
The time was ’95, placards screamed “FETUS ALIVE”, yet Dr. Penlen was devoted
Women, sometimes young girls, bore strong emotions they oft’ emoted
His lifelong stance that equality wore more than pants, and for that he was worshipped or demoted and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Latisha Cook and the irony was, that, she loved to cook too
Skin color Black, credentials she lacked, skills never tested, she felt inner blue
Finally got job waitin’ tables, and it enables “hole in the wall” built for few
She saved up small tips and sarcastic quips, Latisha knew what she had to do
Millionaire politicians are such wise sages, assistance halved, she refused to spell “worse”
She put it all in tired purse, ‘t was ‘98 and on her horizon was becoming a nurse
Shot late one night goin’ home to ‘hood, tryin’ to do good, being Black in America our “original” curse and
Hers, were the hands that built America
His name was Freddy Butler, he bore life’s scars and tended bar down at Smiley’s Place
Jokes, he’d heard them all, complaints, he saw them fall, some poignant deserving grace Sometimes the rowdy crowd, would get too loud and get close in to Freddy’s face
He’d merely smile, with acquired guile one had to accept rules of the race
For forty years he’d seen the tears, watched mating rituals, met many folks who were nice
The fights in that time, were more shouts than crime, as he rolled the liar’s dice
In ’03, when he died, his patrons cried, they said he’d married once or twice and
His, were the hands that built America
Her name was Trina Rollins, recently turned seven on third day of fourth month 2011
Daddy was a laid off stucco sider, a good provider, until pink slip notice came and then
Mom worked two jobs and Dad felt like a slob ashamed for not contributing when
Trina fell ill and time stood still with the house payments late again and again
With no insurance and little assurance the family embraced social safety net
But ‘cross the country in D.C. the powers that be were crafting plans the Rollins would regret
Trina passed on, her sweet smile gone, the rapacious awoke to sparkling dawn, but it’s a sure bet
That, hers “would” have been the hands that built America
The story of America is quite plain to see, the focus not on “me” but rather on “we”
All manor of labor built foundation of land, leaving tired aching backs and hard calloused hands
A “Christian nation” under God, some say, but not me, for injustice mounts, here’s what I see;
We build the rails, bridges and roads, carry light and heavy loads
We pay our taxes, fight the wars, as ravenous gloat ‘hind oaken doors
We mend the machinery, tend the ill, we mop the floors when there’s a spill
We “build” the burgers, cook the fries, wave our flags as the politician lies
We construct the buildings, large and small, man the counters in the malls
We pick the vegetables and the fruit, as “Big Ag” computes his loot
We fight the fires, police the streets, turn the beds and launder sheets
We impart knowledge in our schools, manicure yards with swimming pools
We work two jobs and sometimes three and all we ask is equality
The pursuit of Life, Liberty and Happiness is what the document said
‘T was the gluttonous, the perfidious the e’er insidious turning meaning on its head
We type the documents, take dictation, propel the economy of our nation
We man the home front, raise the kids, fill applications, submit the bids
We dream sometimes washing your cars, put up with “snark” at swanky bars
We serve you at the country club, mix your cocktails, and give back rubs
We do all this and so much more from North to South, from shore to shore
We are men and women from ancestral lands, some tribal or close knit bands
We demand the right to have our unions, as churches do with their communions
We are diverse and do our best to obey law, but we’ve discovered a serious flaw
We can’t compete with debauched Wall St. - they are the cannibals…we are the meat
The wealthy in general care not for penurious, ignoring the plight of poverty injurious
No more taxes! Their rallying cry, no safety net, millions will die
The old, the sick, the weak young and lost, the elites will spare nothing to be rid of their cost
This attack on defenseless surely must stop, ‘tis scum, not cream rises to top
We shall take to the streets en masse and holler, “To hell with the worship of the almighty dollar!”
In our bitterness and tears we never shall falter, the backbone of America is uniquely “BLUE COLLAR"
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