Who Cries For Me?
This is a true story.
I died on 9th Street and St. Clair.
Please let me tell you how I got there.
Raised in poverty of an immigrant pair,
I was one of ten children with not much to share.
By day Papa worked hard but by night drank like a fish.
Mama was a big woman who could whip anything into a
great dish.
All nine brother and sisters were as cold as could be.
Growing up with them they never cared about me.
Average looks or a little less, I certainly was not the
type to play chess.
One by one us kids left home. Oddly enough, I stayed
close by and didn’t roam.
My education was scarce as I struggled to get by.
For a while I even became a clown, although I was shy.
With few friends and no hobbies, my life was a bore.
Days and nights were spent waiting for anyone to knock
on my door.
In my younger years booze had been an intermittent friend.
But as the years passed, it became my comforter at every bend.
