Mass picket in Birmingham, with Jeremy Corbyn. Photo: James O’Brien
By James O’Brien
This was more like it in the brittle ether of the works yard,
I could hear Red Robbo calling from the now concrete Longbridge field.
The ghosts of the flying pickets down at Saltley Gate,
Till the copper locked the gates and said enough’s enough.
This morning the picket, the noble line, closed down operations,
The scabs had to go home and the bosses hung their heads in shame.
They want the workers to pick up the tab of their malfeasance and ineptitude.
If a bin worker was this maladroit HR would soon want a word,
A flapping P45 waved in your face, thanks but no thanks, on your way now.
As the veterans of many a spat and the students and the tireless activists,
Watched over by the bored cops who had nothing to do except stand,
But in their Orgreave faces they could turn in the desolate moment,
But the picket line had the measure as the sun rose over the flags,
Our banners of hope, support, a self-evident truth of total victory.
