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The baby's cryin' in the corner,
Mama, and I'm so
confused, wishin' you'd be here
to help me with this bundle
of baby-oiled faux leather and onyx
thread.

He's all wrapped up
in your old quilt, like the
choirpeople from church, singin' hymns
in melody, no harmony
to cool his fever
down. I'm tryin' to sweat
it out, 'cause that's what you said
to do for him.

He's so pale, Mama, and
he's squallin' awfully at the
sunlight. But, I won't take him
to the doctor, 'cause the money
under my matress won't
cover the expenses.