Down in the market, where merchants thick
The masses swarm the streets of brick
They arm their baskets with tasty things
But recognize when church bells ring
The child thieves with skins of brown
Who take risk to wear the fruitful crown
That used to grow in fields of face
But now lie dead in the market place.

To think kind thoughts of the past
We thought these days would ever last
When busy mothers would stroll upstream
To sip the freshness of liquid dream
They'd climb the heavenly stairs of rice
To fill their baskets once or twice
Now for these things she not give chase
She pays for them in the market place.

The faceless fields do now express
The merchant's vows for his success
The child of brown, with once cheerful face
Now wears a frown in the market place.

© Copyright 1981 S. Rodrick