I don't know what tomorrow brings,
But I made just eight cents today;
Shouldered wheels at many things,
And danced and sang a cabaret.
Thousands looked upon my wares,
And sat upon their lumps of gelt;
They mimicked all they couldn't steal
To plop on their conveyor belts.
Electrocution is my fate;
Before, they sound a little tone.
But I don't dare recriminate
In hopes they'll throw a little bone.
There's little left for me to hope,
I will not steal, I cannot borrow,
But if I feed my zoetrope,
Perhaps I'll earn nine cents tomorrow.
1 comments:
You are as poor as us'ns here in Amishland, but we are richer because of you.
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