the caravans glory is written in sand
like the dreams from the heath lands
the lonely steel bands
the chimes of the clock and the walk to the door
the preachers and lovers unite in the hall
the ponies that run there free on the moors
the old toothless ladies with pure words so pure
the poetry reads there like the new dawning sun
with cows in the meadows and rabbits a run
the work in the factory and the times not your own
with hours spent in fashion and no wheres to roam
there a church bell that chimes there and a scene for to see
with lonely sidewalks and a stroll to the sea
the organist plays his music so sweet
with chords of pure love and honey to eat
there's food on the table and wagons that roll
there's an old gypsy saying left out in the cold
so beat the drum lowly and ply the flute fine
with cherished emotions and words on the vine
there's a gypsy boy playing out on the heath
but its only a childhood left a cutting his teeth