He stands by the heavy steel rail
The morning is ghostly and pale
His jacket is faded and torn
A man who was weathered and worn
He is rusting in the grey fog
Sinking deep in the heavy bog
Blue denim and the iron red
Where the living meet the dead
The torch leaves a scar on the beam
A flicker of white like a dream
He welds every joint in the line
While the salt and the winter combine
His boots hit the gravel and stone
He works in the yard all alone
The oil stains the cuff of his sleeve
A place that he never will leave
He is rusting in the grey fog
Sinking deep in the heavy bog
Blue denim and the iron red
Where the living meet the dead
The lamp in the tower is dim
The tide is now closing on him
The metal is cold to the touch
He held to the hammer too much
The smoke hides the bend of the track
There is no way of turning it back
The oxidation eats at the seam
The end of a working man's scheme
He is rusting in the grey fog
Sinking deep in the heavy bog
Blue denim and the iron red
Where the living meet the dead
Blue denim rust. Blue denim rust.
Rust in the fog.
Rust in the fog.
