The Rhythm of the Rig

The Rhythm of the Rig
The Ballad of the Driller

There’s a lonely light out there tonight while the rest of the world is dreaming,
And down below with its swirling blow, the drill bits hot and screaming.
The life is hard, the hours long, the isolation’s killing,
But there’s legends at the earthy heart of the mighty art of drilling.

Far away from friends and families and the perfumed oils of love,
Hands encased in dirt and diesel ingrained in leather glove,
Thoughts drift off to other places, other traces left in time,
Burn with she wolf’s dedication when an engine loses rhyme.
Hell is hot and getting closer for the driller born to dig,
Mud and clay and grinding gravel churning "Rhythm of the Rig".

Mighty quest for reef and fossilled rib for oil and gas and water,
Stakes are high, strikes are low and yet they love her like a daughter.
This branchline in the slipstream, hands on earth’s almighty tiller,
Matching matrix and her mantle regally titled under "Driller".
In and out before the pipelines ’fore the postbox and the fig,
You will hear the cryptic chorus of "The Rhythm of the Rig".

Learned to drink and swear in union, learned to read the minds of men,
And if the chance presented, most would do it all again.
And the mothers of their children, warrior wives and worn, reliant,
Where hearts are ranked on merit, theirs would feature under ’Giant’.
Let's grasp the water bottle and grab another swig.
Weld the winning of the waters to "The Rhythm of the Rig".

Mild men then and wild men, noble masters of the game,
Gentle men who fanned the embers of the drillers Hall of Fame.
Some now sleep in simple gravesites, not a hint of white cement.
They should warrant gold inscription and vaulting monument
To rusty relics by the roadside fit the hitching chains and snig,
Then restore them as an anthem to "The Rhythm of the Rig".

In our almanacs we’ve missed them ’cause they fought a private war.
Their footprints track the fissures where few had gone before.
Rarely conscious of the difference that their searching shafts had made,
Just silent consequences of the unsung drilling trade,
Science and art are represented in their geologic gig,
Hearts and minds of nation builders log "The Rhythm of the Rig".

And I’d trade a great king’s ransom for the pictures in their eyes
When they steer her to the surface, buried treasure in disguise.
Draped in whirling slurried oozes, more of ancient than of old,
Clad in oily black and bubbling clears and oxide browns and gold,
By the batholiths and breccias bide their partners for the jig,
Dancing up the boreholed ballroom to the "Rhythm of the Rig".

Since those early shafts of fire hardened bamboo formed a drill
The finders linked their knowledge to perfect the driller’s skill.
From the darkened arctic snowline to the bright artesian bore,
Buttoned hammers probe the stratas to rock the devil’s door.
Kings of onsite innovation with their wondrous whirligig,
Mighty maestros of the music of "The Rhythm of the Rig".