The child stoops low as she limps from the welts
past the hovels past sundown through sun-hardened mud
She lost today's pay and got whipped with the belt
but tomorrow she'll eat if she spills no more blood

Her blood stains the carpet she weaves on the loom
from her hands raw from seven, sixteen-hour days
For debt she was traded and locked in that room
'til used up all she learns is fatigue and no play

A mother in Calgary drops off the boys
with their classmates and cruises on clean and wide streets
She drives the new luxury Buick, her joy
the good housewife out shopping where price won't be beat

Her last stop is mall wart where sweat suits cost least
where she ponders a view on the wall of TV's
They show enslaved kids way down south and far east
she exclaims "What a shame but what is it to me?"

An ochre-stained carpet she picks up on sale
with cheap clothing and sport shoes but what does she save
The small stores she left to cut costs on retail
seek the same from South Asia the chain stores enslave

The rich Western customers' trade balance lacks
so the wage of twelve cents in the mill is reduced
More and more children limp slowly past shacks
through the dirt through the dark 'til no longer of use

Gordon Ernest MacLennon
Copyright � July 7, 2003