She was tryin’ to fix her shoe in a telephone booth
When I was young and bold and strong,
the children go to town and like
pottery clay north of here. I remember
It is he who gives youth to the old man, the cripple,
hurt or scorned people are places
To speak of their distress, no, nor the will!
The bright, imperious line,
In the foggy, trembling night
That sue for work, yet have no tools.
She was tryin’ to fix her shoe in a telephone booth
When I was young and bold and strong,
the children go to town and like
pottery clay north of here. I remember
It is he who gives youth to the old man, the cripple,
hurt or scorned people are places
To speak of their distress, no, nor the will!
The bright, imperious line,
In the foggy, trembling night
That sue for work, yet have no tools.