He wore a fedora, lined satin and labelled inside,
Ribbed ribbon round it, doffed to all women outside.
He wore a crombie, woollen and heavy, so warm,
Mints in deep pockets, shared, with small hands, in their turn.
He wore his brogues well, polished and spat to high shine,
Lasted new soles on, tingles all tapped in, his signs
That values were priceless and what you had you protect,
Laboured and worked for, the type of man to respect.
He wore a bunnet, on days of the week, for the graft,
Workboots and parka, donkey-jacket, all part of his craft.
He wore his years right, he wore them till fifty and eight,
He wore a coffin, early death a part of his fate.
He wore the long walks, the countryside, he wore the earth,
He wore his heart out fending for, feeding those birthed.
He wore trade unions, he wore them and stewarded cause,
He wore Keir Hardy and wore them for life, all because
He wore for workers, he wore the rights that we hold,
He wore no-nonsense, he loved, we did as were told.
He wore his laughter, deep in his chest, where it grew
Rumbled and burst forth, head thrown back, and we knew
He wore his heart done, giving his all wore him out,
He wore a family that appreciate better his type.
A man for all seasons, he wore them and wore them with pride,
Big Phil was the daddy, a working gent till he died.
He wore a gravestone, it wears the dates of life here,
I wear his hats now, his legacy, wear with no fear.
scottishmomus 