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On the curb of a city pavement, by the ash and garbage cans |
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In the stench of rolling thunder of motor trucks and vans, |
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There sits a little lady with brave but troubled eyes, |
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And in her arms a baby that cries and cries and cries |
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She cannot be more than three, but the years go fast in the slums, |
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And hard on the pangs of winter's cold, the pitiless summer comes |
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The wails of sickly children she knows, she understands, |
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The pangs of puny bodies, the clutch of small hot hands |
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The deadly blaze of August that turns men faint and mad, |
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She quiets the peevish urchins by telling of dreams she had |
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Of heaven with its marble stairs, and ice and singing fans |
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And God in white, so friendly there, just like the drug store man |
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On the curb of a city pavement by the ash and garbage cans |
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In the stench of rolling thunder of motor trucks and vans, |
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There sits a little lady with brave but troubled eyes, |
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And in her arms a baby that cries and cries and cries |
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So when you're giving millions to Belgian Pole, and Serb, |
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Remember my beautiful lady, Madonna on the curb |
