A locket round her neck boasts of golden rust and troubles,
The knots in her hair show a life full of torment and struggle.
There's a sombre air about the stop where she softly stands,
Her aquaintances see her through wonderous eyes as she frolciks round the band.
There's little she knows,
About country and foes.
The girl in the travelling show.
The bangles round her slender wrists yell stories of lust and friendships,
Her olive skin tells tales of ancestoral wisdom, labour and tips.
The feet she walks upon have danced in many a-bar and fair,
When strangers rush past they stop and sense a certain tickling in the air.
Many have called her "Dear",
Over all these years.
The girl in the wandering gear.
This autumn she turned twenty with such a festive do,
Her friends and 'family' gave her such a colourful send-off too.
Moonlight, lanturns and lights, all in reds greens and gold,
Prancing, dancing, singing and swinging in circles with two hands to hold.
She makes sure the apple is ripe,
A young red face she does wipe.
The girl in the gypsy tribe.
On the way home she crossed paths with two fearful figures,
Noticing red scarves tied around their necks made ger voice tremble and quivver.
The stronger man grabbed her wrist, breaking the bangles she never removed,
As the smaller ripped her garments to find no money nor valuables that he'd approve.
One simple strike to the head,
Her body drops to kiss the riverbed.
The gypsy girl was dead.