I met a man
The other day
On a Chicago train.
By the way
His face was strange
And very old,
And holds a sad story
Yet to be told.
He says, my boy,
We’ll have a drink.
I said, no I thank you,
Mr. Fink.

Then he gave a real deep sigh,
Like a child about to cry.
In a moment he raised and said,
Then he stroked his old bald head,
Patting me on my shoulder then.
He faded his wrinkles into a grin,
Now my lad, as I sit and think,
May you never be like
Mr. Fink.

My younger days had I refused,
Now I’d stand in different shoes;
I could throw this blanket off of me
And this deadly sorrow that you see
Then with a nod he solemnly winked,
Try and remember Mr. Fink.

With a trembling he then relates
Of his mighty love that’s turned to hate,
He called a name that was once his wife.
This was the pride that wrecked his life,
Saying once I was rich, but now I beg.
She’s the cause, a wretched old hag,
Then there was love with a broken link
Mournfully told by Mr. Fink.