By Paul E. Schindler, Jr.
I woke up this morning,
Put on my shoes,
Knew I’d be singing
The Farmers Market Blues
I got there quite early,
Just after nine.
But there was already
A heck of a line.
First stop was the meat guy
Who sells eggs too.
He didn’t have hot dogs
So what could I do.
His chickens were lazy,
So the limit was one.
It just drove me crazy,
And I’d only begun.
Went off to the bread line,
Stood behind twenty-one.
And yet I still managed,
To score a sweet bun.
Then off to the fish booth,
Just hours past dawn,
Only to find out
He just had one prawn.
Had first world problems,
Which were really diffuse,
And then started singing
The Farmer’s market blues.
