Poetry Archives

To have a business of my own
        With toil and tears,
I wore my fingers to the bone
        For weary years.
With stoic heart, for sordid gold
        In patient pain
My life and liberty I sold
        For others gain.

I scrimped and scraped, as cent by cent
        My savings grew;
I found a faded shop for rent,
        Made it like new.
Above the door the paint was dry
        Where glowed my name:
I waited there for folks to buy—
        But no one came.

Now I am back where I began:
        Myself I sell.
I grovel to a greedy man,
        And life is hell.
An empty shop of bankrupt shame
        I pass before,
Seeing my bitter, bleary name
        Above the door.