some down trodden travelers
camped outside my fence
their wagon wheel stuck and broken
light and dark they struggled hard
relying on the little they had
trying to fix their ailing wagon
and in the rain to keep a fire lit
so as to feed their dirty children
through white picket gaps
we watched and discoursed
among ourselves their fate
what great proposals all had
to remedy their heathen plight
early Sunday we scooted past
in our shiny Christmas attire
being careful not to rouse them
a minor act to protect ourselves
that our outfits not be stained
by those poor muddy gypsies
for we’re off to sing of the Savior
and have a congregational feast
where once again we will expound
pitching pennies on worthiness
dictating the terms of our grace
early afternoon we made our way
gliding down the hill in our buggy
toward our neat and proper home
the sun was shining in the cold day
with the bag of bright coins jingling
but the travelers were not to be seen
until closer we drew to the picket fence
a dot appeared ahead on the hill top
in our joy we watched them fading
oh how great the land we dwell in
that swells with prosperity and pride
our gardens never trampled down
by the souls of those who tend them
as we beat the plowshares regularly
but now while looking down we notice
our wagon wheel stuck and broken