The poem
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.