No Sunday Chicken
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.
Other works by Robert W. Service...
