No Sunday Chicken

by Robert W. Service

I could have sold him up because His rent was long past due; And Grimes, my lawyer, said it was The proper thing to do: But how could I be so inhuman? And me a gentle-woman. Yet I am poor as chapel mouse, Pinching to make ends meet, And have to let my little house To buy enough to eat: Why, even now to keep agoing I have to take in sewing. Sylvester is a widowed man, Clerk in a hardware store; I guess he does the best he can To feed his kiddies four: It sure is hard,--don't think it funny, I've lately loaned him money. I want to wipe away a tear Even to just suppose Some monster of an auctioneer Might sell his sticks and clothes: I'd rather want for bread and butter Than see them in the gutter. A silly, soft old thing am I, But oh them kiddies four! I guess I'll make a raisin pie And leave it at their door . . . Some Sunday, dears, you'll share my dream,-- Fried chicken and ice-cream.