My hands don’t rock the cradle

• Lyrics and Music by Teresa Healy
  (Ottawa, November 24, 2003)
  

  My hands don’t rock the cradle
  I know my son won’t rule the world,
  I saw the way you looked at me
  And the ground beneath me swirled
  No Judge Murphy
  Please let me go
  I’m just a poor wee girl
  I’ve made mistakes… I know

And you, yourself a mother? The likes of you. Such ill-repute

This country’s full of promise
I know there’s money to be found
Find a man who owns a railway
Or kick some gold up from the ground
I’d love to go to the picture show
And wear a fancy hat
But I stand outside the dance hall
I’m the one they laugh at.

You are a danger to yourself and to your son. You are too young

I used to work in a grand big house
Where the sun flowed down the halls
I shone the glass ‘til rainbows danced
And scattered on the walls
Winter’s chill would leave my bones
When I would work all day
But now the night-time beckons me
To follow and obey

You are incorrigible. Incompetent. Can’t pay the rent.

I might have had a chance back then
I held my breath and smiled
But lonely nights would find me
Asking God to heal my child
Then the lady said I had to leave
She couldn’t keep me on
I had to look for work again
I couldn’t go back home

You are a danger to your race. A little slow. He’ll have to go.

Oh Judge Murphy don’t take him away
Don’t cut out my heart
With the words that you say
I’m not what you think
But I do what I do
Please leave us alone
We’re just poor, we make do