Blues Poem: His First
For years and years he struggled,
The little girl was her last memory,
He works day and night for her,
He goes through blood thirsty marauders,
And tormenting mongrels,
For odd jobs with little pay,
The little girl is his pride and joy,
Ever since the day he first held her,
Unfortunately on that same day,
He had watched the life slip away,
From his first pride and joy.