My father was a union man; he paid his dues on time.
He thought a scab who crossed the lines committed quite a crime.
But when at last he had to quit, retire in ill health,
His union pension fell far short of all its promised wealth.
My mom wrote letters, all ignored, and went to see the boss
Of the local chapter – he was smoother than cheap gloss.
He showed her graphs and invoices and other bric-a-brac
That proved, he said, the pension fund was in the red, not black.
(My mother noticed when she left he drove a Cadillac.)
Whenever I am asked to join a union I reply:
I'd rather burn it than to see it go to some wise guy.
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