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Robert W Service - No Sunday Chicken
Work rating: Low

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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