There's a workhorse warehouse down in the field
Boards fallin' off and old rusted steel
Stiff smell of pride and blood, blue collar perfume
You know they don't make 'em like they used to
There's still a stash of smokes behind the line
Old dried out paint brushes turpentine
Old dusty machinery, grease buckets and stock
There's still a stack of cards for punchin' the clock
Gone are the days and times gone by
Of firm handshakes and a look in the eye
An honest days work, cash in hand
The glory days are gone for the working cla**