Market

On a market you can see the people run. The life itself sells here knowing all. The paleness gets a tan under the Sun. The smartness is wearing out the sole. And to and fro here goes a branded flesh, and risqué tongues suspended scurry about. It was the want-hag that swept the trash, With a dashing broom uproar swirls around. And cheeky grated balls are looking at my eyes. A spicy smell is near me. It's marked up. It's teasing nose of mine – my sense is right to all the rest of senses on that sharpened. And motley clothes the fruit-green`s putting on. For hungry women it's a king of strip-tease. A kind of honey is brought by a brazen drone. It is the tawdry world of alien prestige. Persistent hubbub gets my ears on an` on. Soon goods are thrown by plenty into mess. By feet as a pair of compasses a horizon's drawn to ancient Middle East through wild Wild West.