The winter night was closing in,
But the shivering child stood bold
At the corner of the emptying street
Newspapers clasped against the cold.

"Oh will you buy a paper, sir?
It would give me wonderful cheer,
For my mother, a widow, is ill at home
And the medicines are so very dear."

The passing gentlemen cuffed the lad,
"Get away, you little beggar!
Your mother is ill! I've heard it before!
You'd spend the money on beer and cigars."

"Oh, no, kind sir!" the young man cried,
"Our mother is very sick!
And there's only Alice -- she's three -- and me
To care for her, you lousy prick!

"Go on to your house with warmth and lights,
To your food and drink so rich,
Alice and I will dine on a moldy old bone
You rotten old sonovabitch!

"But the time will come when you will repent,
And that time is coming fast!
When the world's downtrodden throw off their chains,
And the Revolution comes at last!"

"Get on with you, you Anarchist punk!"
The gentleman said with a grin,
"I know your kind -- you're a Wobbly kid!
Be glad I don't turn you in!"

"Bastard!" said the child, and from his pocket
Drew a revolver, a new thirty-two,
And he shot the plutocrat right in the balls,
Took his wallet and ran. Wouldn't you?

         -- Pearl Pureheart, Songs of an Innocent Childhood
            (East Tottenham: Songbirds Press, 1901)