A wandering peddler led me among the purple-hued trees, Down past the groggery in the frantic fall breeze; Over brown leaves, under green cathedral skies we sat, One hand in my yellow scented hair, the other his aristocrat. He pressed my soft body and gently kissed each breast, I closed my passing eyes, waiting for the unknown guest; Of peddlers on a pilgrimage with their wares of pots and pans, The dust is in a rage from these yearly caravans. He really was a champion the way he stole my pence, After bartering and flattery, a touch of eloquence.
Reason for writing:
None given
Birth sign: Not entered
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