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Show THE MADONNA 0B THE CJR3 (By Christopher Moriey) 1 On the curb of a city pavement, By the ash and garbage cans. In the stench and rolling thunder Of motor trucks and vans. There sits my little lady. With biave but troubled eyes, And in her arms a baby That cries and cries and cries. 2 She cannot be more than seven; iBut years go fast in the slums, And hard on the pains of winter - The pittiloss summer comes. The wail of sickly children -She knows; she understands The pangs of puny bodies. The clich of small hot hands. 3 In the deadly blsze of August, That turns men faint and mad, She quiets the peevish urchans 'By telling adream she had A heaven with marble counters, And Ice and singing far.; And a God in white, so friendly, Just like the drug store man 4 . Her ragged dress is dearer. Than the perfect robe of a queen! Poor little lass, who knows not The bleseings of being clean. And when you are giving millions To (Belgian, Pole and Serb, Remember my pitiful lady 'Madonna of the curb! |