Get up in the morning, slaving for bread, sir
So that every mouth can be fed


My wife and my kids, they packed up and leave me

Poor me, the Israelite



Poor me, the Israelite

After a storm there must be a calm

You sound your alarm
Poor a-poor a-poor me, the Israelite




So that every mouth can be fed


I said my wife and my kids, they are packed up and leave me
Darling, she said, I was yours to be seen
Poor me, Israelites. Aah

Look Me shirts them a-tear up, trousers are gone
I don´t want to end up like Bonnie and Clyde
A-poor a-poor me,

After a storm there must be a calm
They catch me in the farm
You sound your alarm
Poor me, Israelite
A-poor a-poor a-poor me, Israelites. Aah