---

Take your fill of intimate remorse,
Perfumed sorrow,
Over the dead child of a millionaire,
And the pity of Death refusing
Any check on the bank
Which the millionaire might
Order his secretary to
scratch off
And get cashed.

Very well,
You for your grief and I for mine.
Let me have a sorrow my own if I want to.

I shall cry over the dead child
Of a stockyards hunky.
His job is sweeping blood off the floor.

Now his three year old daughter
Is in a white coffin
That cost him a week's wages.
Every Saturday night
He will pay the undertaker fifty
cents till the debt is wiped out.

The hunky and his wife and the kids
Cry over the pinched face
Almost at peace in the white box.

They remember it was scrawny
And ran up high doctor bills.

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