Everything seems so bland.I want to cry; I want to weep.They told me it'd be all okayOnce I vent my frustrations,But they don't want me to be fineThey want to see my cryLike they find it entertaining:I am an entertainment,And they are the audience.
Corpses are cold in the tomb;Stones on the pavement are dumb;Abortions are dead in the womb,And their mothers look pale--like the death-white shoreOf Albion, free no more.Her sons are as stones in the way--They are masses of senseless clay--They are trodden, and move not away,--The abortion with which SHE travailethIs Liberty, smitten to death.Then trample and dance, thou Oppressor!For thy victim is no redresser;Thou art sole lord and possessorOf her corpses, and clods, and abortions--they paveThy path to the grave.
The sudden death of Eugene CarmanPut me in line to be promoted to fifty dollars a month,And I told my wife and children that night.But it didn’t come, and so I thoughtOld Rhodes suspected me of stealingThe blankets I took and sold on the sideFor money to pay a doctor’s bill for my little girl.Then like a bolt old Rhodes accused me,And promised me mercy for my family’s sakeIf I confessed, and so I confessed,And begged him to keep it out of the papers,And I asked the editors, too.That night at home the constable took meAnd every paper, except the Clarion,Wrote me up as a thiefBecause old Rhodes was an advertiser
Love, banish'd Heav'n, on Earth was held in scorn,Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary,And wanting friends, though of a Goddess born,Yet crav'd the alms of such as passed by.I, like a man devout and charitable,Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring guest,With sighs and tears still furnishing his tableWith what might make the miserable blest.But this ungrateful, for my good desert,Entic'd my thoughts against me to conspire,Who gave consent to steal away my heart,And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire.Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold,No marvel then though charity grow cold.