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Show THE STRIKE FEVER. My Job Is all could desire, it yields me handsome pay; I wrestle With my 'blooming lyre for eight brif hours a day. I ought lo think myself in luck, to have a job I like but all the other i" have struck, and so I think I'll Btrike No stern oppressor grinds my face with cruel iron heel; to tyrants In tho higher place I make no vain ap peal No rank injustice 1 lament, my spirit isn't sore; I have no grievance worth a rent, that makes mo walk the floor. But 1 see all the striking lads parade along the pike; they've qull their work in all the grads, and so 1 think I'll strike l am thp only man at work in all this lovely land, who does not lind his labors irk, who makes no stern demand. I'm satisfied with what I do. and with the pay I get; each day earn three bones or I two, in damp but honest sweat I'm 1 treated better than a king, and life! Beams pretty slick, and as 1 sii around and sing 1 can't think up a kick. But' I am lonesome all the day, the one contented guy the rest have thrown their tools away, and they go march ing by. I srr them waving bright red Hags as up the street tho hike; and so my lilting labor drags I rathei think I'll strike nn |