Now walking there was one more fair— A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail— ’Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow, For this world’s peace to pray; For, as Love’s wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman’s heart gave way!— But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven By man is cursed alway.
Ring around the rosy, Cellar full of booze; We can have a party Any time we choose.
’Twas the night before pay day and all through my jeans I searched but in vain for the price of some beans. Not a quarter was stirring—not even a jit; The coin was off-duty—milled edges had quit. Move forward! Move forward! Oh time, in thy flight, Make it tomorrow—just for tonight.
Hubby came home, tangle-footed, His wifie met him at the door, Grabbed the bottle from his pocket— “Empty? Go and get some more!”
Irene Talbot, skillful typist, Works for Dave A. Masterbilt. Writes a neat and snappy letter, Marks it in this way: “DAM/IT.”
I have read of the death of the martyrs; the story of Peter and Paul, The story of Luther and Calvin—I respect and honor them all; And also old Thomas and Stephen, honest and faithful men, And I’ve read the sweet story of Jesus, and expect to read it again, I’ve read of the Good Samaritan, of charity’s lesson begun, And my heart goes out in great pity to the wayward, prodigal son.
All are so glad to welcome him, so quick to forget and forgive, It makes no difference what he has done, if only comes back to live; They have always prayed for the prodigal boy since ever the world begun, The joy, the glory, forgiveness of the returning wayward son, But poets seem to forget to write of the saddest thing in the world— They are not so eager to welcome back the poor little prodigal girl.
Just why she has turned out crooked—she happened to strike “the right one,” Who had the slick tongue of a Judas—and that was your prodigal son; Though the boy is upheld and forgiven, it is common all over the world, That you scornfully point out for gossip the poor little prodigal girl. There is nothing so truly pathetic as the life of the maidens who fall, And if you search down to the bottom, you will find man the cause of it all.