Once upon a bustling May, I glimpsed the girl on Saturday.
Arched on ropes, standing there, lively, cheerful, she was fair.
Strands of silver on her skirt, exotic scarves on her waist,
Adorned her like her golden bangles, flaxen like her hair.
A gypsy who could not get hurt, I thought without a care.
Folk who would die for a dare.

I remember seeing her knees, scars forming zigzag “Z”s,
Oh! I could not stand to look at her face of intense care,
As she glided down the tightrope, fear’s fangs bit and I couldn’t cope.
She walked gently not to fall even by a tiny hair.
I strolled to distract myself, petting her glossy burnished mare.
Folk who would die for a dare.

I saw people dancing, and the gypsies smiled in performing.
People floated through life, on a high rope in this flashy fair
Awed but frightened, I gazed at the rearing, roaring, bumbling bear,
Dancing up with the fiddles and flutes, a comical sight so rare.
A common sight for folk who dreamed of danger to explore and care,
Folk who would die for a dare.