| Here in Harlan County, the choices are few
|
| To keep food on the table and the babies in shoes
|
| You can grow marijuana way back in the pines
|
| Or work for the man down in the mine
|
| You never forget your first day in the hole
|
| There’s a pit in your stomach and your mouth’s full of coal
|
| There’s no turning back once you make up your mind
|
| As the cart rattles on down in the mine
|
| Way down in the mine, your tears turn to mud
|
| And you can’t catch your breath for the dust in your lungs
|
| Loading hillbilly gold where the sun never shines
|
| Twelve hours a day, diggin' your grave
|
| Way down in the mine
|
| Well the old timers talk but you just don’t believe
|
| It can all go to hell at two thousand feet
|
| Life sways in the balance of nature and time
|
| And fate has no mercy down in the mine
|
| The news spreads like fire and burned through those hills
|
| Hopes were held high but five men got killed
|
| On the wings of canaries, your soul surely flies
|
| While your bones spend eternity down in the mine
|
| Way down in the mine, your tears turn to mud
|
| And you can’t catch your breath for the dust in your lungs
|
| Loading hillbilly gold where the sun never shines
|
| Twelve hours a day, diggin' your grave
|
| Way down in the mine
|
| So take a flask from your crib can can and a pull of moonshine
|
| And say a prayer for them boys down in the mine |