I have this thing for gypsies. I don't know. But I like 'em. So here's a short poem about one of them and me.
I met a gypsy along my way. He said, "Hey little girl, would you like to play?"
With no hesitation or fear in my heart, I lept for great joy and jumped onto his cart.
His wagon was filled with most sparkly things, red stones, pretty scarves, magical wings.
I asked the gypsy, "If ever he flew?" The answer that followed was mostly untrue.
With a gleam in his eye he turned back to the road and steered the great wagon and its magical load.
I crept near to the wings, for they glimmered with shine. I touched them, caressed them, and wished they were mine.
I heard music, great music. Song filled my mind, I never heard the gypsy creep up from behind. The wings shook and fluttered as though they would fly, but it was too late once I heard a deep sigh.
I was pushed with a force to the edge of that floor and would have fallen right out for there wasn't a door,
But the flutters and glitter and sputters, and magic, attached to my shoulders and saved me from tragic.
I flew from the wagon, into the great sky, leaving that gypsy without a goodbye.
I flew and I flew, and I never came down, because gypsies abide in any old town.
If you're thinking I lie, just look deep in my eyes -
Not a sign that I'm tipsy when I speak of the gypsy.