No Sunday Chicken

 I could have sold him up because
 His rent was long past due;
And Grimes, my lawyer, said it was
 The proper thing to do:
But how could I be so inhuman?
 And me a gentle-woman.


Yet I am poor as chapel mouse,
 Pinching to make ends meet,
And have to let my little house
 To buy enough to eat:
Why, even now to keep agoing
 I have to take in sewing.


Sylvester is a widowed man,
 Clerk in a hardware store;
I guess he does the best he can
 To feed his kiddies four:
It sure is hard,--don't think it funny,
 I've lately loaned him money.


I want to wipe away a tear
 Even to just suppose
Some monster of an auctioneer
 Might sell his sticks and clothes:
I'd rather want for bread and butter
 Than see them in the gutter.


A silly, soft old thing am I,
 But oh them kiddies four!
I guess I'll make a raisin pie
 And leave it at their door .
 .
 .

Some Sunday, dears, you'll share my dream,--
 Fried chicken and ice-cream.

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