And the hollow face
That stared empty out of the box
Would beg to say
Pa will we eat today
In that well known place
Called Hooverville
:
And watery soup
Was the order of the day
If you was lucky
To be inline they say
The jazz had gone
That flight of fancy
The band could no longer play
:
And the gangsters groaned
For their own self pity
Box cars were full
Of the wandering dead
Going nowhere to work
To the evicted homestead
:
Bakers forgot how to make bread
And bankers leapt
Where paper wealth
Always seemed to tread
And where was your pity
For the wandering dead
:
And the towers of greed
Built of paper Mache
Would crumble and fall
When foundations folded
And left the hapless to bleed
:
But times were good
Of that we knew
As the suicides rose
No more the wandering dead
And the politicians preached
Nothing bad with Hoover stew