Oh my child, you sigh and moan,
You sing the blues, a melancholy song
Your head hung down, how could everything go wrong,
Your

Insulated with paper, the weary man prays for someone he can indulge.

Disheveled and haggard, closeted disaster, when will

I've been a working man every since I could walk,

it ain't a hard luck story just the way I was taught.

Work for what I'm

Half past noon I was summoned

To report to the room of decision

Where deals are made then broken

With executive precision

Perhaps

fifty six years,
3 generations,
filled with laughing,
crying and despair.
left to wonder if anyone
really cares.

Today is a good