The Last Man Left In The Union

I’m the last man left in the union,

the last with a heart that bleeds red,

I’m the local branch secretary,

and the national commitee’s head.

I rattle the tins on weekends

and picket the works they close down,

I collect my own subscriptions

and put posters up in your town.

I vote in all the elections,

though nobody cares about me:

even the Labour candidates

think workers should do it for free.

I’m the last man left in the union,

yet you told me to shut my gob,

you should thank me because I wouldn’t,

'cause that’s what kept you your job.

[Audio here ]