Bazaar - 2011/01/24

Smells of the exotic waft in the air
Past the endless throngs of prospects
Services are sold for the goods traded
Casually enriching the usual suspects
Cutthroats pay much attention drifting
Deciphering the rhythm within the haze
With the guardsmen so watchfully alert
They begin to doze off on slower days

The sounds are a unique collaboration
Of the battle between opposing greeds
Who is to say what is fair and unfair
When wants become confused with needs
What watchful eye identifies a crime
That is merely treachery of the lips
How does one draw the dividing line
Where caveat emptor is the only tip

The thieves have vacated the premise
As there was very little to be found
And whatever there was long ago left
In the hands of the predators around
Day by day the smells become dimmer
To the dwindling group of prospects
For nobody can afford to do business
With obnoxiously rich usual suspects

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