Pride of a Market Woman

Who would feed the cubs? Those that shall one day be scrubs, The land that hurts but weaken, The life of the poverty stricken, Who would shelter the pullets? With tongues spinning spits of fear down their gullets, Quils that gather and habour, Drink from no gourd of splendor, Who would hunt for the fledglings? Bearing cozz of the days proding, Skies that hold their pride, Not that it complements nor wide, Who would guide the fingerlings? Innocent youngers of the waters hovering, Scales trading afore in line, A battle when awe,too handsome to decline, Who would care for the billies? Ears that heed not voice that harries, She who sounds the tone, A rift with the throat,altered by a stone. By the rivers that gather, The manner of happenings, I am hurt when weaken, But by my tent,when I sit, Beneath the towering heat, Of which shall continue to repeat, And like my fragile-skinned allies, I am hearthy from within.