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A MOTHER'S CRY TO HER KIND
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And grind as you will in poverty mill
You'll wish that you were dead.
You'll wish that you were dead.
"Don't ever have a child,
If you must cook and scrub
And wash your soul, all day long,
Into the clothes you rub.
For the sight of children bred in want,
The cry of their distress,
Will make you long to be but a beast
Out in the wilderness.
If you must cook and scrub
And wash your soul, all day long,
Into the clothes you rub.
For the sight of children bred in want,
The cry of their distress,
Will make you long to be but a beast
Out in the wilderness.
"Don't ever have a child.
In winter there is cold,
In summer there is fever and death—
And a face laid in the mold.
And then another—coming to fill
Its sallow hungry place,
And suck at your breast and drain the life
And hope out of your face.
In winter there is cold,
In summer there is fever and death—
And a face laid in the mold.
And then another—coming to fill
Its sallow hungry place,
And suck at your breast and drain the life
And hope out of your face.
9