Come, have a taste of my difficult life,
Daily I dine on poverty and strife,
My pockets are filled with nothing,
And the harsh cold stiffens everything;

But you sit on the rock,
Ride all day in a cool truck,
Surrounded by linen and fine gold,
And never afraid to grow old;

Deaf to all my frustrations and agony;
Never acknowledging my tearful testimony,
Blind to all my sorrows,
Waiting until I am no better than scarecrows.