I lived a happy life ‘til I was ten years old When debt landed dad in prison and our country house was sold Lodged with a lady in her London flat, so cold Worked at a boot polish factory, labelling jars quite dull all told Goodness only knows I was a miserable soul
For a time I went to school but then I found a job As a clerk to a lawyer, oh, it made my poor head throb I failed to be an actor despite my loud gob Ended up reporting speeches of the parliamentary mob Then as everybody knows I started writing prose
Put my life into my books Friends and enemies and crooks Legal bosses up they crop In “The Old Curiosity Shop” Fagin in “Oliver Twist” A factory pal, you get the gist And although my memory's quite foggy Got Scrooge from the grave of Ebenezer Scroggie
My first book was an overnight sensation But I drove myself too hard to enjoy the adulation Despite my wealth, my family begged for money I wrote of it in “Chuzzlewit” which people said was funny Didn't sell like books before My family still asked for more
“Little Dorrit” is a tale About my dad in debtor's jail While “Hard Times” tells my life ‘Bout when I tried to leave my wife “Little Nell's” death was my poor dear Departed sister-in-law And “David Copperfield”, working in a factory I must confess that that was really me
In my life, felt shamed ‘bout poverty in childhood Wrote about sadness, suffering and fear Also wrote about people with funny names Bumble, Smallweed, Scrooge, Uriah Heep And Wackford Squeers
Whilst writing “Edwin Drood” A train crash didn't help my mood Still I drove myself on With readings far across the pond Died before I wrote Drood's end Sort of thing drove me ‘round the bend So Dickens, take a dickens, take a bow And Heaven knows I'm miserable nowTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
