The Mad Money Squeeze

The Mad Money Squeeze

It's thirteen degrees, there's holes in my knees
and very rich men have got all the cash.
I struggle along in my old dungarees
to my nice home in the valley of trash.

Down on my luck and stuck in this city,
a tuna sandwich and three cup-a-soups.
Fine ladies pass all looking quite pretty,
chasing white poodles with little gold scoops.

I'm counting my change while ten fingers freeze
down on the corner of heartache and pain.
Spent my whole life in the mad money squeeze
out in the wind and the cold pouring rain.

Now someday they'll stop and say what a sight;
guess that old bum must have died in the night.