Ten for a dollar, not worth a dime.
Two bucks gone, such a crime.
The emptiness of their shovel and pail.
Left twenty mud pies up for sale.
Babysitter blues, six at a time.
We're left searching for clues, with no reason or a rhyme.
Pain around our neck, feeling bought and sold.
In a world that's lost tender hearts of gold.
Faded maps of where to go.
Yesterday just doesn't know.
We're left to wonder, where'd we fail.
To just end up with this mud pie sale.
About new town in case it's too obscurely written. Peace.