My grandpa organized a crew back in ‘34
When his dock wouldn’t touch a box from the Nazi ports.
The whole West Coast stood up with them so the company worms
Cracked heads & they shot two dead, but the strike held firm.

(We remember Bloody Thursday.
We who work along the West Bay.
We remember all the fallen.
If one of us is in prison,
It’s as if they’ve jailed us all,
& we will not be moved to play ball.)

They say we ain’t worth nothing,
But if me & my cousins
All over pushed this button,
Then all at once they’d watch the
Whole thing stop.

In every port-of-call,
The millions standing tall,
They know a victory for one’s a victory for all,
’Cause if he be a friend of labor, he’s the truest friend you got.
The splinters in the hand,
The lungs of chalk & sand,
The aches & pains the same on every dock in every man,
’Cause if he be a friend of labor, he’s the truest friend you got.
(If he be a friend of labor!)

(If he be a friend of labor!)
(If he be a friend of labor!)
(If he be a friend of labor!)

When Pops saw Bishop Tutu speak back in ’84,
He said, “There’s some Apartheid crates shipping to our doors.
Your granddad didn’t fight Fascists on the shores of France
So we could let Afrikaners smear their blood on our hands.”

(We remember June, Soweto.
We remember Steven Biko.
We remember all the fallen.
If one of us is in prison,
It’s as if they’ve jailed us all,
& we’ll be Silas to their Paul.)

& we’re in this together
& we’ll hold out forever;
If we all threw our levers,
They’ll see the gears come to a
Screeching halt.

In every port-of-call,
They won’t just let us fall,
They know an injury to one’s an injury to all,
’Cause if he be a friend of labor, he’s the truest friend you got.
The timecard caked in dirt,
The sopping undershirt,
They live inside the pie graph margins & they know our hurt,
’Cause if he be a friend of labor, he’s the truest friend you got.
(If he be a friend of labor!)

Remember when Brother Ted went down there & sparred with the Praetorians?
Though he’s gone back to the soil, the powerful play still goes on.
Now our enemies are domestic, but a Fascist always shows his ass,
Whether it’s in Warsaw Ghetto, Robben Island, Alcatraz,
Or Boron, California, with its Gettier corporate thugs
Who sneer through riot visors, semi-autos & their clubs.
& high on stilts the foremen sit, all smiles & personlized mugs,
& their office reeks of coffee scorch & scabs installing bugs
While they crank the AC up so far the windows all look steamed.
But they don’t see the 150-some million that’s standing behind you & me.
Or how Shane was working the forklifts & his thumb caught on a skid,
& he can’t afford the time off: he’s alone with two young kids,
& insurance is a joke ----- “Denied” is their only policy.
So tonight it’s pass the hat ‘tween rounds for him at Jock McGee’s
& unsigned manilas through his locker slats the next few weeks,
‘Cause an injury to him is still an injury to me.

In every port-of-call,
The millions standing tall,
They know a victory for one’s a victory for all,
’Cause if he be a friend of labor, he’s the truest friend you got.
The splinters in the hand,
The lungs of chalk & sand,
The aches & pains the same on every dock in every man,
’Cause if he be a friend of labor, he’s the truest friend you got.
(If he be a friend of labor!)

(If he be a friend of labor!)
(If he be a friend of labor!)
(If he be a friend of labor!)