I see that rich bloke
On the fancy Browing Street,
And also his servant boy yonder.
He was fat and soak
In gold his hands and feet.
And it made the little boy wonder
In his shrivelled, dry skin
(That was breaking off
And falling on the ground)
Whether it was a previous sin
That hath made his life so rough
That it was harder each day to be around.
Ah! If only the rich bloke could see
That it was him who made the poor lad.
Blasphemous is your growing tum,
That increases by the hour. Don't flee
With the lad's bread. You hath killed his dad.
Tis your ignorance that you held about such a sum.
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