Nineteen hundred and thirty three,
times were tough for so long, all agreed.
“Next year!” they say, “The crops will pay,
then something fancy will mark your grave.”
But time didn’t pass very well,
Papa got sick and died soon after they tell.
Momma worked and scrimped,
but soon found her life was spent.
As for the rest; it would have been the Orphan Train,
victims of a sad silly game.
But that line got shut down.
No one quite remembers where they were bound.
Nineteen hundred and thirty three,
times were tough for so long, all agreed.
No Comments