Raging seas beat harshness in souls,
Left behind in doorways once clean,
Take flight and keep true dear witch,
As magic dies tonight for the moons gleam.
A tiny bottle holds life and good fortune,
Few coins can buy happiness and power,
The pinchers on carts of busheling hens,
Those people that roam from fields sour.
Yellowed grasses are never far on foot,
Bleaching cloth to wear on Sunday pure,
Girls reveal the grace bestowed upon them,
Until men gathered round and showed sure.
Gypsy life has changed in times gone by,
We hold tradition and shame close to hand,
Never tell of those workings behind blinds,
As country people have lied waste on land.