I wear wool, threadbare and torn throughout,
But I wear it with pride — just enough, then I move on,
Counting my blessings, ninety nine and counting,
This is not a begging bowl I’m holding,
It is a loving cup for my old man
Who provides for me with skillful workmanship
So what if people spit on our backs and faces?
We bless them for providing us with wine.
Let people sneer at us and kick our heels,
We bless them for reminding us of love.