Rosie RobertsI was sick, but more than that, I was madAt the crooked police, and the crooked game of life.So I wrote to the Chief of Police at Peoria:“I am here in my girlhood home in Spoon River,Gradually wasting away.But come and take me, I killed the sonOf the merchant prince, in Madam Lou’sAnd the papers that said he killed himselfIn his home while cleaning a hunting gun—Lied like the devil to hush up scandalFor the bribe of advertising.In my room I shot him, at Madam Lou’s,Because he knocked me down when I saidThat, in spite of all the money he had,I’d see my lover that night.”
I was sick, but more than that, I was madAt the crooked police, and the crooked game of life.So I wrote to the Chief of Police at Peoria:“I am here in my girlhood home in Spoon River,Gradually wasting away.But come and take me, I killed the sonOf the merchant prince, in Madam Lou’sAnd the papers that said he killed himselfIn his home while cleaning a hunting gun—Lied like the devil to hush up scandalFor the bribe of advertising.In my room I shot him, at Madam Lou’s,Because he knocked me down when I saidThat, in spite of all the money he had,I’d see my lover that night.”