By Scott Bailey © 2015

There is an ancient market square
Where we all spend our lives
And round and round the stalls we pass
Consuming precious time

The gates are closed to hold us in
While hawkers hawk their wares
Criers cry of doom beyond
The solid steadfast walls

In their towers high above
Lords and ladies gaze
Down upon the writhing mass
And counting out their pay

Where’s the farmer in his field
Where the traveller strange
Where’s the road beyond the gates
Or the key to let us out

So on and on forevermore
We circle round the square
In trenches deep from shambling feet
Beneath the icy stare

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