They’re sittin’ around a can o’ chow
Helpin’ themselves tuh stew.
I kid myself, I ain’t et fer a week,
But I know it’s dang sight more.
My throat is dry—my insides squeak—
I’m hungry—clean to th’ core.
I ain’t th’ kind that’ll stoop to yell,
When bad luck comes my way.
I’ve lived and sinned. I’m bound for Hell.
But—guess—I’ll kneel and pray.