They neither know of night or day,
They night and day pour out their thunder.
As every Ingot rolls away,
A dozen more are split 'asunder.
There is a sign above the gate: Eleven days since a man lay dying,
Now every shift brings fear and hate, and shaken men in terror crying.

The molten rivers boil away a fiery brew Hell never equalled,
To their profits the bosses pray,
And Mammon sings in his grim cathedral:
His attendants join the choir,
and Heaven help us if we're shirking!
Stoke the furnace's altar fire and just be thankful that we're working!

To this, men, charge the hoppers high, 'lest you endure the foreman's choler!
To this, men, drain the tankards dry,
And let us toast the almighty Dollar;
It keeps us chained here before the fire,
Where heat and noise send the weak a quaking.
That the Siren's infernal cry the open heart sets the ground to shaping.

To this, men, raise the ladies high and make them shriek with love and laughter!
To this, men, kiss you woman's eyes,
and raise a song unto the rafters.
Wash the steel mill from your hair,
Beat the table 'till it's breaking.
Don't let terror enter there and in the hearth set the glasses breaking!

Lyrics submitted by selfliberation

The Puddler's Tale song meanings
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