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by Nevada Kerr

You pick and poke at the hole I own
Go get a hole you can call your own
I climbed out of withered flesh and bone
Without a huckster's hopeful mortgage loan

You can cut the faith I strive to build
With your money talk and servant's will
But I'm not a captive up for sale
Nor a kitchen maid in a pretty jail
I won't sing small for the boomtown boss
And dangle naked from a humble cross

I saw you furl, wrinkle, and stow
Your blue collar gown in a barrel of coals
A cinderwench scrub in butterfly bows
You joined the factory to get out of the cold
I escaped your clutches before I grew old

Written by © Nevada Kerr
27th January 2003.

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Created: Feb 2003 © Paul Kinder Last Updated: 2/2/03