I’m a union member, of the Wobblies; the Industrial Workers of the World. I’ve been a member of other unions and a rep. in some of them, in past existences, but this subscription is the only one I maintain.
This piece is about their work with the American lumberjacks who:
“often worked twelve hours a day, seven days a week, faced incredible dangers on the job, and lived under horrendous conditions. They were one of the most abused groups of workers in the early 20th century. The Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) was the only labor organisation to pay any attention to workers in the lumber camps of the South and the Pacific Northwest. Although humorous in tone, the poem “The Lumberjack’s Prayer” captured the gruelling conditions that most lumbermen faced on and off the job and was written by T-Bone Slim. It was circulated on small coloured cards that the IWW sold to raise money. T-Bone Slim (born Matt Valentine Huhta) was a popular Wobbly writer. The nickname “Slim” was often used by hoboes, perhaps because they tended to be skinny from lack of food. In Wobbly publications, Christ was sometimes called “Jerusalem Slim.”
The song is all about food. And the adulterated crap that they were forced to eat. Nothing changes, eh?
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I pray, dear Lord, for Jesus’ sake
Give us this day a T-bone steak
Hallowed be thy holy name
But don’t forget to send the same
Oh hear my humble cry, O Lord
And send us down some decent board
Brown gravy with some German fried
With sliced tomatoes on the side
Observe me on my bended legs –
I’m asking you for ham and eggs
And if thou havest custard pies
I’d like, dear Lord, the largest size
O hear my humble cry, almighty host
I quitе forgot the quail on toast
O let your kindly heart bе stirred
And stuff some oysters in that bird
Dear Lord, we know thy holy wish
On Friday we must have a fish
Our flesh is weak and spirits stale
You’d better make that fish a whale
O hear me Lord, remove these “dogs”
These sausages of powdered logs
The bull-beef hash and bearded snouts
Take them to hell, or thereabouts
With alum bread and pressed beef butts
Dear Lord, you’ve damn near ruined my guts
Your white-wash milk and Oleorine
I’d wish to Christ I’d never seen
O hear me Lord, I’m praying still –
But if you won’t, our Union will
Put pork-chops on the bill of fare
And starve no workers anywhere
