Migrant’s Blues

To sit at the counter…slurping thin chilli from a tablespoon while waitresses waltz by in tight whites and Mexicans in hairnets take orders as Mexicans do….why…..’Cause they have to….

There are dishes to wash…tables to wipe…floors to mop…and fries to fry, I need a number 7 Jose, screams an eye-lined redhead, And make ’em crisp…..you know…..

No longer white man’s work….too much…too hard….Miliniels too soft…a migrant’s pilgrimage…from Oaxaca…to Chicago…
to Cleveland …..to New York…ship ’em out….we’ll make more…

And potatoes peeled pile-up….cans o paste poured….tomatoes stewed….

Now sits a bowl of thin chilli…slurped with a silver tablespoon….

Make ’em crisp, is told again, Make ’em crisp….


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