Over and over they used to ask me, While buying the wine or the beer, In Peoria first, and later in Chicago, Denver, Frisco, New York, wherever I lived, How I happened to lead the life, And what was the start of it. Well, I told them a silk dress, And a promise of marriage from a rich man— (It was Lucius Atherton). But that was not really it at all. Suppose a boy steals an apple From the tray at the grocery store, And they all begin to call him a thief, The editor, minister, judge, and all the people— “A thief,” “a thief,” “a thief,” wherever he goes. And he can’t get work, and he can’t get bread Without stealing it, why, the boy will steal. It’s the way the people regard the theft of the apple That makes the boy what he is.