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We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six o’clock in the morning, clean the bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down mill for fourteen hours a day week in-week out. When we got home, out Dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt!
Well we had it tough. We used to have to get up out of the shoebox at twelve o’clock at night, and LICK the road clean with our tongues. We had half a handful of freezing cold gravel, worked twenty-four hours a day at the mill for fourpence every six years, and when we got home, our Dad would slice us in two with a bread knife.
I had to roll a boulder to the top of a mountain each day. And at the top, my liver would get eaten by an eagle. Afterwards the boulder would roll down and I had to start my work all over again.
But what do I know, I only see shadows on a cave wall.
luxury!
You try telling that to the young people today, and they won't believe you!
Wow, you were lucky! I grew up only knowing one type of knife because that's all my dad could afford. Imagine growing up in a house where the whole family had to share one knife for both bread and poop!
According to Alfred Matthew Yankovic:
There were seventy three of us living in a cardboard box.
All I got for Christmas was a lousy bag of rocks.
Every night for dinner, we had a big ol' chunk of dirt.
If we were really good, we didn't get dessert.
When I was your aaaaaaaage!
Oh wow, deep cut! I had that buried somewhere in the back of my brain.
You had a cardboard box?!
Luxury!
When I was young ...
We were so poor, we use to get grandad around to decorate our Christmas tree by sneezing snot onto it.
"Bit more on this side, grandad!"
Luxury.