Swap Meet

Swap meet behind the trees in the park,

Young and tied up in chain-leashes,

The sun beats down between the trees,

Cruel, steely glint,

Unmerciful heat,

Chains bruise our wrists,

Our sellers yank those chains,

To make us mad, to make our eyes heat up with fury and pain,

To make our bodies rigid with indignation,

So that we look tough and threatening,

And they barter on,

Until eventually we're sold for a handful of coppers,

Or a wad of brightly coloured notes,

Depending on us and the economy,

Swap meet forever killing my soul,

And selling me.

The End

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