Note: As I have stated before in a poem I wrote and posted on here, Al Giecek was my grandfather.

He worked just about every mine there was.

He worked “The Hill” here in Butte,Montana until he was blinded(won’t say accident as it was no accident but an attempt on his life by The Company or A.C.M. Anaconda Copper Mining Company) in a blast at the Leonard Mine back in the 1950s.

He wrote.

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This is one of his poems he wrote that I found while packing away stuff in preparation to move very shortly.

I wanted to share it and hope you enjoy it.

The Butte Measureman

By Al Giecek

Under the creaking gallows frame,
The Company’s Weejee standa;
It’s boss, a nasty way has he,
With tapes like rubber strands;
And miners watch his scrawny arms
That cheat like gypsy bands.

His tape will stretch from short to long—
Your stope he loves to span;
His brow is wet with evil sweat,
He steals what e’er he can;
And looks the whole world in the face
As though he loved each man!

Week in, week out, from dawn to dusk,
You can feel your cubics go;
You can see him stretch his stingy tape,
He’ll measure short, you know;
Like the Jesse James of olden fame,
With his shooting guns so low.

And miners going home from work,
Look on and loudly roar;
They hate to see his cursed board —
They know they’ve earned much more;
Just hear the ugly words that fly
Toward that thieving boar!

He goes on Sunday to our church —
His heart does not rejoice;
He feels the people’s eyes on him,
And hears the miner’s voice;
Praying for this villian’s sake,
But gives his soul no choice.

It hounds him like his Boss’ voice,
Bringing tears to his weasel eyes;
He then must think of us once more—
How with his tape he lies;
Then in his hard rough heart he vows
To change like morning skies.

Sampling,stealing, measuring,
Throughout the mine he goes;
Each Sunday sees him make some vows,
Each Monday sees them froze;
Something attempted, nothing done —
That’s the way he goes.

Please, please blame not this measureman,
For cubics thou can’t boast!
Tis but the ruling force of job
That rules him evermost;
Let’s only hound the A.C.M.
For higher price to post.

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