Gypsy Guy
Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
Be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins;
The ones that plot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
'The gypsy soul, I can't control, my patience wears and wanes;
They will not cede to common greed, one only way remains,
In boxcar bins, with violins we'll freight them out in trains,
And in the bogs, they'll die like dogs, and everybody gains.'
poem by Terry O'Leary
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