My little lady,
Is going to work today.
Dressed in her Sunday's Best,
As she trots down Avenue A.
She'll sit at a bench,
For a near twelve hour day,
Yet still will only make,
Nearly half of my pay.
My little lady,
Comes down with the sun,
As she enters the threshold,
Of our lovely little home.
Waiting are my sons and daughters,
With tales taller than the Tower of Babel,
So she reaches to love them with weathered hands,
And then put dinner on the table.
My little lady,
My little suffragette,
Wants the world,
But only gets,
The factory walls at best.
Some day when her time is met,
She will be laid to rest.
Body worn beyond her years,
Dressed in her Sunday's Best.