Down at Millwall one gloomy morn,
Stood a docker, grim and forlorn,
Like a jungle-cat, with muscles tense,
Waiting for the call to commence.
At a quarter to eight, he sprant at the gate,
But alac and alas, he was too late,
For drenched with dew, tired and worn,
Men had waited since early dawn.
Six days by the gate, and along the wall,
They fought like tigers, around the call,
With tooth and claw, and eyes abright,
They fought and struggled, with all their might.
The chosen few were radiant and glad,
Those that were left were gloomy and sad,
For to each man there the truth was plain,
That a `bomper' would be his only gain.
The moral of this simple ditty,
Is a docker's life is not so pretty,
On four pound eight to live and eat,
Frankly brothers, it's got me beat.
