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The Pedlar
A different day, a different town,
A different market place,
But to every customer
An old familiar face.
He just sold bits of bric-a-brac
Picked up from who knows where,
Records, books and cutlery,
A table or a chair.
And everything thing he sold was cheap,
He didn't pedal greed
But liked to sell necessities
To those he found in need.
He hardly made a profit,
He did it all for love;
Some thought that he was sent here
As a blessing from above
And those who stopped to talk to him
No longer were amazed
To find that when they walked away
Their spirits had been raised.
He smoked a lot and swore a lot
Though no-one seemed to care;
They looked at him and knew they saw
A good man standing there.
And so he did what he did best,
Each day a different place;
Each day he'd leave another town
With a smile upon its face.
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