Henry Please was born head into the bitter cold.
His lungs were beehives; his feet had a leather sole.
He crawled the streets and laid his head on a bed of coals.
And Santa Claus never returned the letters that he wrote.

He borrows his dimes and his time and his cigarettes.
Henry only wants a bit of what the better get.
He's got nothing left; he sells hubcaps and radios.
He tows his cross. Yeah he's nothing but the weight he owes.

They broke his auburn legs (before they)
laid his corpse to rest
into an awkward grave--
a poor man all his days.

He swore an oath in May
that he'd want his losses paid,
but how he died ashamed
while all his loose ends freyed.

He sold his life for bread and cotton,
a hole in the wall and a glass of water,
a case of beer and a scratch at the lottery.

Now he's folded asleep,
barely six feet deep.
And the worst lie that he ever said
was, "I am not afraid."

10/30/2008

Author's Note: a song with guitar and banjo.

Posted on 10/30/2008
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