There's my things
drying in the corner;
that blue skirt
joined to the gray shirt--
I'm sick of trouble!
Lift the covers
if you want me
and you'll see
the rest of my clothes--
though it would be cold
lying with nothing on!
I won't work
and I've got no cash.
What are you going to do
about it?
----and no jewelry
(the crazy fools).
But I've my two eyes
and a smooth face
and here's this! look!
it's high!
There's brains and blood
in there--
my name's Robitza!
Corsets
can go to the devil--
and drawers along with them!
What do I care!
My two boys?
--they're keen!
Let the rich lady
care for them
they'll beat the school
or
let them go to the gutter--
that ends trouble.
This house is empty
isn't it?
Then it's mine
because I need it.
Oh, I won't starve
while there's the Bible
to make them feed me.
Try to help me
if you want trouble
or leave me alone--
that ends trouble.
The county physician
is a damned fool
and you
can go to hell!
You could have closed the door
when you came in;
do it when you go out.
I'm tired.
This is not a little sermon on slums. It conveys more than two dozen or
two hundred magazine stories about the comedy of slum-work. As the
memoir of a physician, it is keener than Spiess' notes of an advocate in
the Genevan law courts. It is more compact than Vildrac's "Auberge," and
has not Vildrac's tendency to sentiment. It is a poem that could be
translated into French or any other modern language and hold its own
with the contemporary product of whatever country one chose.