Poor is me

Poor is me who lived on fried bologna with a split in the middle,                                             Poor is me who cooked it on a garage sale griddle.                                           Poor is me who sat endless nights worried all alone,                                               Poor is me who had no money to call home.                                               Poor is me who ran out of gas, oh so cold,                                       Poor is me who had bald tires with no tread to grasp the road.                                       Poor is me who searched for pennies in the cracks of the couch,                                           Poor is me who felt so ashamed and wanted to slouch.                                             Poor is me who asked for 51 cents in gas please,                                             Poor is me who ask the lord will this ever cease.                                                 Poor is me who had shoes wearing thin,                                       Poor is me who was always mending holes in my socks again.                                       Poor is me who gathered pop bottles to take back for return,                                           Poor is me who wanted so bad a good meal I yearn.                                         Poor is me who dreaded them coming to read the meter,                                             Poor is me who borrowed from Paul to pay Peter.                                                     Poor is me and that's okay,                                                 Because I can make it, come what may.                                                                     Debra DeLong                                                                     copyright 2000 Written October 25th, 2001 © on Oct 25 2001 03:39 PM PST   0 • 10