Saturdays Child

Some are teethed on a silver spoon,

With the stars strung for a rattle;

I cut my teeth as the black racoon—For implements of battle.

Some are swaddled in silk and down,

And heralded by a star;

They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth

On a night that was black as tar.

For some, godfather and

The opulent fairies be;

Dame Poverty gave me my name,

And Pain godfathered me.

For I was born on Saturday—"Bad time for planting a seed,"Was all my father had to say,

And, "One mouth more to feed."Death cut the strings that gave me life,

And handed me to Sorrow,

The only kind of middle

My folks could beg or borrow.