Dead Livelihood Poem by Ima Ryma

Oh it was such a sad, sad day
When the factory did shut down.
I left my job with my last pay.
Nothing to smile about - just frown.
It was my job for twenty years.
Each product made with loving care.
And then the need just disappears.
So called progress is hell, I swear.
I don't know what I'm gonna do.
How will I pay for room and board?
I'll have to beg, maybe steal too.
So to hell with you, Henry Ford.

Through teary eyes and trembling lips,
I bid goodbye to buggy whips.