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“Steel In Our Hands”

Lyrics written by me, music AI generated. “Steel In Our Hands” There’s frost on the rooftops of Sheffield town,Grey light on the river where the mills burned down,Zero-hours on a cracked phone screen,“Shift starts now, be there by fifteen.”Mum’s at the till with a forced bright smile,Dad’s on the scaffold another hard mile,Train fares rising like the morning rain,Wages stuck in the mud, hearts full of strain. But we were raised on stubborn ground,On council estates where hope is loud,Where every bruise and every scar,Is a badge that says we’ve come this far. We’ve got steel in our hands, fire in our lungs,Dust in our boots and truth on our tongues,They can price up the rent, they can cut our pay,But they can’t take the pride we carry each day.From the docks to the farms to the factory lines,We’re the pulse of the streets and the railway signs,When the sirens cry and the church bells ring,It’s the working class that makes England sing. A nurse on nights in a worn-out ward,Claps have faded, but the bills still roar,Care homes short and the buses late,Kids on the doorstep of a food bank gate.Warehouse lights in a windowless room,Barcode beeps like a metronome doom,App says “faster,” the clock says “run,”Another twelve-hour shift half-done. Still we laugh in the pouring rain,Share a smoke at the end of the train,Find small mercies, a Friday pint,A choir of voices in soft lamplight. We’ve got steel in our hands, fire in our lungs,Dust in our boots and truth on our tongues,They can sell off the rails, privatise pain,But they can’t buy the love in a neighbour’s name.From the terraces packed on a Saturday night,To the picket line standing for what is right,When the floodwaters rise and the tempests sting,It’s the working class that makes England sing. We remember the strikes, the banners flown,The whispered stories our grandparents told,Of hunger marches and factory gates,Of standing together against the weight.And maybe the suits in their high glass towersDon’t know the cost of our borrowed hours,But every brick in this battered land,Was laid by a calloused, stubborn hand. So light the torch in the blackout street,Hear the rhythm of marching feet,No headline writes what the heart can prove,That dignity is a thing that moves. We’ve got steel in our hands, fire in our lungs,History’s hymn on our broken tongues,They can redraw the lines, rewrite the deal,But they can’t erase what we know is real.From Liverpool shores to the London grime,Through every hard and hopeful time,When the future calls, we’ll answer strong,It’s the working class that keeps this country long. Under sodium skies, through debt and doubt,We are the ones they can’t count out,With worn-out gloves and unbowed heads, We build tomorrow from what they shed.