by Pa Rock
There was a time in the history of America when businesses operated with little or no government oversight. John Boehner and the teabaggers in Congress view that era with nostalgia and long to return America to the "glory days" of unfettered capitalism. The following lyrics by Woody Guthrieserve as a counterbalance to that conservative nonsense.
1913 Massacreby Woody GuthrieTake a trip with me in nineteen thirteenTo Calumet, Michigan in the copper countryI'll take you to a place called Italian HallAnd the miners are having their big Christmas ballSinging and dancing is heard ev'rywhereI'll take you in a door and up a high stairsI'll let you shake hands with the people you seeAnd watch the kids dance 'round the big Christmas tree.There's talking and laughing and songs in the airAnd the spirit of Christmas is there ev'rywhereBefore you know it you're friends with us allAnd you're dancing around and around in the hallYou ask about work and you ask about payThey'll tell you they make less than a dollar a dayWorking their copper claims, risking their livesSo it's fun to spend Christmas with children and wives.A little girl sits down by the Christmas tree lightsTo play the piano so you gotta keep quietTo hear all this fun; you would not realizeThat the copper boss thug men are milling outsideThe copper boss thugs stuck their heads in the doorOne of them yelled and he screamed, "There's a fire"A lady she hollered, "There's no such a thing;Keep on with your party, there's no such a thing."A few people rushed and there's only a few"It's just the thugs and the scabs fooling you."A man grabbed his daughter and he carried her downBut the thugs held the door and he could not get out.And then others followed, about a hundred or moreBut most everybody remained on the floorThe gun thugs, they laughed at their murderous jokeAnd the children were smothered on the stairs by the door.Such a terrible sight I never did seeWe carried our children back up to their treeThe scabs outside still laughed at their spreeThe piano played a slow funeral tune,And the children that died there was seventy-threeAnd the town was lit up by a cold Christmas moonThe parents, they cried and the men, they moaned,"See what your greed for money has done?"