A poem to Jonnie O'Brien pwned by a fellow dockie.
A GOOD WEE BLOKE

Scotch with a dram of highland fling, 
Battled to be featherweight champ of the British ring, 

Boxed by his ring name of Johnny O'Brien, Sported the heart and the courage of an African lion. 

He went after boxers wherever they dwelt, Winning the coveted Commonwealth Belt. Fighting was in his Celtic blood and proved his natural love, 

With Santos and Famechon he traded glove for glove.

Wherever he fought he had loyal entourage, 

In industrial strife also he would lead the charge. And Johnny could shame all those comedian blokes With his repertoire of down-to-earth jokes.

When I hear Scotsmen sing the songs they ken, 

J O'B will be embossed in our hearts again, 

When "I Belong To Glasgow" will be fervently sung, Reminding us of Johnny's Glaswegian tongue.

Now Johnny has faced his final round, 
And gone away to his clan's hallowed ground. 
To have known Johnny was to feel ten feet tall, We loved you and we'll miss you, one and all.


My final wish in the writing of this story is that in some way it will help the painters and dockers to overcome some of their problems. I understand that old sores are often hard to heal, some of them are impossible to heal, but you must always keep trying. It is well worth it for one day a cure will be found for all the ills of this society that thrives on a situation where workers and their families and friends are at one another's throats. If this story, even in some small way, succeeds in that end, then it will have been worth the time and the effort, not only my time but that of everyone who has contributed time, money and effort to the writing and production of this book.