December ’61.
My Dad’s wages light.
Still on that salary
We, all four, could sleep tight.
Right now if you drank from
That very same well,
You’d need a run of luck
To score a bed in a trick hotel.
Is this the legacy of
Too much for too few
That I see?
The kind of legacy that’s
Tossin’ some good men
To their knees.
The «Great Society’s»
Maligned concrete cage
Sits dead and vacant now —
At least it kept out rain.
With all those corners cut
The cracks grow wide and near.
I heard some cash was saved
But where it’s gone ain’t clear..
Who goes down next I don’t know.
I don’t know nothin’
Anymore.
Tomorrow’s legacy that’s
Layin’ in state
Awaits reprieve.
I always thought that when a man goes down
You do your best to pick him up.