Pratt-Pullman: Iron Rails & Pullman Porters

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
You, little spike from Pratt-Pullman Yard,
225 Rogers Street, Atlanta, 1904,
pulled from the Georgia red clay in 1925,
carved with initials J.T. for James Thomas,
my grandfather's hands gripped you tight,
under that sweltering bay roof, 90 degrees,
coal smoke biting the air, oil slick on your iron skin.

[Chorus]
Oh, spike, you held those iron rails of progress,
but on Black backs, Kirkwood men like Asa Philip Randolph,
born 1889, fighting through Jim Crow shadows,
Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, their quiet roar.
You were there, hammered down, witnessing the sweat,
the ache in shoulders from polishing those heavy green curtains,
fold-down berths in the luxury cars.

[Verse 2]
I hold you now, feel the grit of coal dust still,
your rough edge where the pneumatic riveter shook,
midday break at 12:30, tin cup coffee bitter on lips,
distant clank of coupling cars, foremen's shouts.
Many from Kirkwood streets, boarding trains to nowhere and back,
under starched uniforms, facing the passengers' disdain.

[Bridge]

Spike, you became a doorstop in our bungalow,
propping open the screen on Hosea L. Williams Drive,
a small rebellion, your carved mark against the company's theft,
wage disputes in those union minutes, 1925 echoes.
George Mortimer Pullman's ghost in the machine shops,
but you, you outlasted, a keepsake of endurance.

[Verse 3]
Remember the wives packing cornbread and collards,
in tin pails for shifts that stretched like endless tracks,
the feel of sticky heat pressing down, vibrations up arms.
Randolph's words in 1925: who dares place Rockefeller above
organizing the unorganized, protection in the dark.
You, spike, nailed that truth into the earth.

[Outro]

Rest now, little spike, in my palm,
iron vein of Kirkwood's heart,
built on labor that bent but never broke.