On the docks didst Tommy work; union strikes.
Times, be they tough; sees not signs from above.
In the tavern dost Gina slave; wage hikes.
Bringeth she home her pay, her man doth love.
Lo, for Tommy’s six-string doth cry no more,
Holdeth he in all of his emotions.
Gina doth dream of escape evermore;
Weeps she nightly, he gives her devotions.
Sayest they, “hold on to that which we’ve got.
“It matters not if success wouldst be ours.
“Have we each other, for be that our lot,
“Try we hard, to the best of our powers.”
“Half way there art we, live we on a prayer;
“Take thou mine hand, we shalt make it, I swear.”