Little Joe, born with a wooden spoon,
In a little town north of Rangoon,
Born with feeble hands and feet,
He wasn’t pretty nor was he sweet.
Little Joe, smart enough to sparkle shoe laces
He didn’t wear shoes as he looked up on the faces.
Speaking to himself, his conscience was dull
He didn’t have a brain inside his skull.
Little Joe grew up to be Joe,
He had nothing much to show.
The dimes in his hand were very few,
Little Joe never got his due.
Little Joe, never became a slave,
His exit was near, he thought he over stayed.
He never really talked with anyone,
Though he said goodbye to everyone.
Little Joe, dead, threw himself in a pit,
The general feeling was one of relief.
Little Joe stagnated in the mud,
The flies rejoiced as they sucked on his blood.