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The ordinary merchant Lives just like you or I; His house is made of brick or stone, His rooms are warm and dry; And if we want his merchandise, On foot or in a 'bus We journey to his shop, because, His shop won't come to us. But Basket-making Gipsies Consider people more: They harness horses to their house And bring it to your door; And 'neath the shelter of the trees It stands when day is A kitchen, bedroom, workroom, shop And nursery in one. The Basket-making Gipsies, A pleasant life is theirs, Without the sameness of a street, The weariness of They've every day another ride, Another town to see, And, in the shade beside the road, Another picnic tea. |