Gang Boss Arthur

When I was a young lad in New Zealand,

I began my working life

At the bottom 

Of a road construction ditch.

I was a navvy.

Better known today as a manual laborer.

My job was to shovel the shit 

That had accumulated

Within the ditch.

To shovel it from the bottom

Of the ditch to the top. 

And sometimes for a change

From the top to the bottom.

I was in a work gang

Composed of a dozen or so men.

Our gang and many others

Were way up in the boondocks

North of Auckland,

Cutting scrub, clearing lines,

And of course as always digging ditches,

Getting things ready 

For the big earthmoving machines

Due to start in the summer.

We were miles from civilization,

So far beyond 

The back of beyond

That we lived in our own tent city, 

Which we called Shangri-La,

Complete with canteen, laundry, hospital, etc,

And even a barber shop on Sundays 

When we got a half day off.

Our gang boss was named Arthur.

He was the toughest 

Gang boss there was.

He was feared by all,

For he could be a violent man

When he felt he’d been disrespected,

Or when the men slacked off too much,

Or if he just happened to be feeling that way.

His language was fierce too.

The most ferocious in The Company,

Adding to his reputation 

As one tough son-of-a-bitch gang boss 

Who didn’t take any crap 

From anybody!

A reputation of which Arthur was very proud.

When I first began working 

In the ditches 

I was sixteen-years-old.

I hadn’t spent much time 

In the company of grown men yet,

So I was afraid of Arthur

With his fierce reputation and his swinging fists.

He detected this, 

And seeing the men saw it also,

He treated me with extra hostility,

As if to break my spirit

And bend me to his will.

“Watch out for Arthur.”

The men warned me.

“He’s a mean one.”

“What’s he got against me?” I wondered.

But nobody knew.

So I stayed out of Arthur’s way

As much as I could,

And shoveled the shit

As best as I was able.

A philosophy I still practice today.

Then one day, 

While shoveling shit 

From the bottom of a ditch

Way out in the middle of nowhere,

I was struck in the foot with a pickaxe.

The man in the ditch next to me

Slipped and lost control  

Just as he swung with all his might,

And into my foot his pickaxe went!

It bled terribly and hurt like hell!

The pick had stuck in my foot

And wouldn’t come out,

Much to the amusement of my workmates

Standing in the ditch with me,

Who didn’t immediately comprehend

The severity of the situation.

I didn’t either, 

And seeing the others were laughing

I laughed too and pointed at my foot, saying,

“Somebody take a picture!”

And other foolish nonsense

As my boot filled with blood.

Not Arthur, though.

He understood right away!

He jumped into the ditch,

Pushing the other workers aside,

And hoisted me out.

Then without attempting to remove the pick from my foot

He applied a tourniquet above my ankle

With the sweaty bandana from round his neck,

After ordering one of the men 

To fetch his goddamned truck and be quick about it

So he could get me to the hospital.

That’s when I passed out.