An American Tragedy

The boss lounged at his desk, smoked a cigar,
Fat, obscenely fat, a mockery of health.
He dished out some money, some green to those he patroned,
To those who gave him power.
And the boss hindered Irishmen's chances to be free.


There was this boy from Dublin.
Dirty, he was, so unclean from his journey.
He had dreams of making it big in America,
But he would soon find that it it's just another tussle.
The American dream he wanted, but could never have.


The boy was told to meet with the big boss man
In the smoky saloon downtown in the Irish sect.
The boss could make the boy something if he chose,
Exalt him as high as the angels, maybe higher,
But instead, he chose to throw him into the mud.
It was all she wrote for the boy before it all commenced.

And the boy became a boxer for betting men.
Fought all comers, and did the best he could.
Small but scrappy, he could take a punch,
But he barely made any wages.
He often wondered, "When will all this ever end?"


And then one day, he went up against Big Bill Mulligan,
And he laid the boy out like a piece of meat.
A few men gave the boy hell,
Kicked him around, made jeers at him, "Get up! Ye fool, get up!"
But it was too late. Big Bill Mulligan had laid him out for good.


The boy died right there on the canvas,
On the same floor chickens cockfight.
The blood flowed out from his nostrils,
His eyes, like tenderized meat, tell a sad story.
It was painful to see by the sensitive few at the scene.
Good for him that he doesn't feel a thing.


And then there's the boss: rich, pompous, and fat.
Counted his money from the bets made on the boy.
But then an angry mob forced down the doors
Of that smoky, old saloon in which he lounged.
The boss, he said, "Spare me, fellers, you bet on your own accord,"
But the boss, well, he was shot full of holes.


What comes around, goes around in circles,
And that, my friends, is the end of an American tragedy.