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My Boss keeps sporty girls, they say; His belly's big with cheer

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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
All Entries 1997 - 2002
All Entries 2002
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No Sunday Chicken

Published by Susan on 08/02/2003 (2290 reads)
I could have sold him up because...

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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