This poem was writen back in the 40's after WWII. The lineman was my great uncle, He was a Lineman for the City of Chewelah in Washington State. The same town I started in the trade in 1984. I worked there fore 22 years before moveing on.

The Lineman

Up on the storm-swept crossarm,
Where the winds blow wild and free,
A cowhide belt and a clip of steel
" Twixt him and eternity.

When the thunder peals o'er the tree tops,
And the lightening gleams on the hill,
It's then his work is awaiting him,
And he gets plenty of thrills.

When the folks in the houses cringe and shake,
Before the storm has passed,
He handles death at his fingertips,
To make the hot wires fast.

One slip of the hand and he's gone,
To the least long days of pain,
But let him out and sure as sin,
He'll be up on the poles again.

There's times he holds in his very hands,
The life of the pal he loves,
And prays that he fails not in his trust,
By a flaw in his rubber gloves.

But for all of that he's a common guy,
And very much carefree,
And he will stick to you through everything,
The best pal you ever did see.

So, sometime in a thunder storm,
When everything goes black,
Juct think of the poor guy working hard,
To get those hot wires back.

By: Bud Moorehead