Copyright © 2006 by Kenneth Mark Vigil
All Rights Reserved

Well his name it was Charlie O’Conner
He was born of a Saturday night
Between Molly McVee and Matty O.C.
And everyone said, “It’s not right.”

Well he grew up too tall and too quickly
His youth was spent trying to survive
But he learned how to think and he learned how to drink
And he couldn’t help wondering why

Yes, why are some good men called bastards?
And why is a good woman a whore?
And why are the poor ones left wanting
While the rich ones are still taking more?

And why do some good folks go hungry
While others eat more than their share?
It didn’t add up and it didn’t count down
And by-God it didn’t seem fair

And yes Charlie O’Conner loved whiskey
And some they say whiskey loved him
He cuddled and clutched to his brown paper bag
While he searched for the answers within

And the answers poured out with the whiskey
Filling his half empty glass
He’d raise one and toast, a couple and boast
Until he fell flat on his ass

But the answers were gone in the morning
Leaving him nothing but pain
Another night older, but no more the wiser
With questions that always remained

He came to be known as a rounder
A guy who was down on his luck
His alcohol eyes, he wore in disguise
To say “hey, I don’t give a fuck.”

But those few who knew him knew better
They knew how he suffered within
To answer the questions that vexed him
Like where it would end or begin.

And why are some good men called bastards?
And why is a good woman a whore?
And why are the poor ones left wanting
While the rich ones are still taking more?

Yes, why are some good men called bastards?
And why is a good woman a whore?
And why are the poor ones left wanting
While the rich ones are still taking more?

And why do some fine folks go hungry
While others eat more than their share?
It didn’t add up and it didn’t count down
And by-God it didn’t seem fair

“It’s not right!”