It is dark and dreary.
The sun never comes out.
I feel so wet and sticky.
Why won't this mud come out?
I know not what it is like,
to even know how to ride a bike.
I'm stuck in this house,
Filled with all sorts of louse.
My bathroom is a box,
And my bed is a chair,
I one day hope to get more underwear.
As I lay down at night feeling sorry and helpless,
I often wonder at times what the rich have dealt with.
I'll bet their stairs are made of marble,
And their house built of gold.
I'd even go to say that their bathroom never molds.
Their maids are all chipper and their house always happy,
Sometimes all I want is to take a little nappy.
My parents all gone so it's just me and my sis,
but we somehow make it out everyday with just a kiss.
We both go to school, and we both don't work,
And people with leftovers are sometimes just jerks.
"We stick to our own", that's what father always said,
Before he last kissed me goodnight and tucked me into bed.
Mother never loved me or my sis at that,
She always carried a bottle and one day never came back.
So now we survive with what all we can,
though people put us down, we stick to our plan.
One day we're gonna be free of all our burdens and sorrows,
But today we just wish we could just skip to tomorrow.
Living poor is not fun, and was not our desire,
But we "roll with the punches" and make smores out of the fire.
Being poor does not mean defenseless and scared,
If so, then my sister and I would be bare.
We've fought for our place in this mighty cruel world,
And one day we're gonna pass up the "richies" with pearls.
We'll work till our fingers fall off from our bones,
Because this is America and you work for what you own.
I can't wait for the day when I buy a TV and a fan,
or when I will be introduced by a singer and a band.
But for now, my place is to take care of my own,
and maybe one day, people will look up to the Jones'.