From the recording Savage Pilgrims

Matt Hill Vocals, Acoustic Guitar, Banjo, Bass
James Youngjohns Electric Guitar


I'm the ghost of the Pueblo adrift and alone
Sickly white skin hung on Mescaline bone
A savage pilgrim a long way from home
conjuring cobbles and coal

I'm an outcast, an exile, a pervert, a spy
hated by many with all that implies
nothing to give but the words that I write
I wander these deserts alone

Struggling to breathe, clinging to life
Coughing up coal dust as black as your eyes
Growing grey as an Erewash sky
Torn and wrenched apart from the country of my heart

Was like my pen was possessed I don't know what I wrote
Something about how a family might cope
As the presence of progress
brings an absence of hope

You've a nerve to be calling me filthy obscene
You colliery owners will never scrub clean
You've no airs and graces when you're mining the seam
That's when we're all the same
That's when we're all the same