You would not believe, would you br That I came from good Welsh stock? br That I was purer blooded than the white trash here? br And of more direct lineage than the New Englanders br And Virginians of Spoon River? br You would not believe that I had been to school br And read some books. br You saw me only as a run-down man, br With matted hair and beard br And ragged clothes. br Sometimes a man's life turns into a cancer br From being bruised and continually bruised, br And swells into a purplish mass, br Like growths on stalks of corn. br Here was I, a carpenter, mired in a bog of life br Into which I walked, thinking it was a meadow, br With a slattern for a wife, and poor Minerva, my daughter, br Whom you tormented and drove to death. br So I crept, crept, like a snail through the days br Of my life. br No more you hear my footsteps in the morning, br Resounding on the hollow sidewalk, br Going to the grocery store for a little corn meal br And a nickel's worth of bacon.