Take your fill of intimate remorse, perfumed sorrow Over the dead child of a millionaire And the pity of death refusing any check on the bank Which the millionaire might order his secretary to Scratch off And get cashed
Very well You for your grief and I for mine Let me have a sorrow my own if I want to
I shall cry over the dead child of a stockyards hunky His job is sweeping blood off the floor
Now his three year old daughter Is in a white coffin that cost him a week's wages Every Saturday night he will pay the undertaker fifty Cents till the debt is wiped out
The hunky and his wife and the kids Cry over the pinched face almost at peace in the white box
They remember it was scrawny and ran up high doctor bills
