Jane Jenkins was just barely ten br When her father's beatings had begun br The year was nineteen twenty nine br As they waited together in the free bread line br Her little face wore such sweet repose br Her cheeks the color br Of the old fashioned rose br That grew on the trellis by the house on the hill br Where the voice of her mother br Was stoic and still br He always wore a Black Irish frown br Since the day he arrived from Dublin Town br With the immigrant groups who then here came br To dodge its poverty and shame br It had never really been that bad br Before that Tuesday that the stock market crashed br He drove a truck, a Mack I think br But had propensity to drink br And sometimes days would turn to weeks br He'd not come home and they lived on the cheap br And all those times that he was stealth br He kept his paycheck to himself br So itty bitty tiny Jane br With her mother would beg to gain br A penny here or a nickel there br Picking cotton until their hands were rare br So she'd grown accustomed to those times br Her stomach was emptier than yours or mine br But the one thing that was sorely marred br Was her wee small heart with its thickened scars br And she safeguarded it under lock and key br Putting on a face of merry glee br And attended school wearing flower sacks br In place of the fabric that her mother lacked br And then one day her life all changed br She dared to dream a dream to frame br He'd left for good with his Black Irish frown br She stomped his memory br In the cold hard ground br br Written by Sara Fielder © Feb 2012br br Sara Fielderbr br