December '61. my Dad's wages light. Still on that salary we, all four, could sleep tight. Right now if you drank from that very same well, you'd need a run of luck to score a bed in a trick hotel.
Is this the legacy of too much for too few that I see? The kind of legacy that's tossin' some good men to their knees. The Great Society's maligned concrete cage sits dead and vacant now - at least it kept out rain. With all those corners cut the cracks grow wide and near. I heard some cash was saved but where it's gone ain't clear..
Who goes down next I don't know. I don't know nothin' anymore. Tomorrow's legacy that's layin' in state awaits reprieve. I always thought that when a man goes down you do your best to pick him up. But how can the milk of kindness trickle down when it's syphoned off and cheats the cup?