| Close the coalhouse door, lad
|
| There’s blood inside
|
| Blood from broken hands and feet
|
| Blood that’s dried of pitblack meat
|
| Blood from hearts that know no beat
|
| Close the coalhouse door, lad
|
| There’s blood inside
|
| Close the coalhouse door, lad
|
| There’s bones inside
|
| Mangled, splintered piles of bones
|
| Buried 'neath a mile of stones
|
| Not a soul to hear the groans
|
| Close the coalhouse door, lad
|
| There’s bones inside
|
| Close the coalhouse door, lad
|
| There’s bairns inside
|
| Bairns that had no time to hide
|
| Bairns who saw the blackness slide
|
| Bairns beneath the mountainside
|
| Close the coalhouse door, lad
|
| There’s bairns inside
|
| Close the coalhouse door, lad
|
| And stay outside
|
| Geordie’s standing at the dole
|
| And Mrs Jackson, like a fool
|
| Complains about the price of coal
|
| Close the coalhouse door, lad
|
| There’s blood inside
|
| There’s bones inside
|
| There’s bairns inside
|
| So stay outside |