"Have Florentine, will travel!" I cry over the streets,
My typical selling line. Rough, but it beats
Selling sheep like my brother, on usual days,
But today no one seems to like my turn of phrase.
"Have Florentine, will travel!" I call again and again,
And still no one answers, and I wonder then,
Are Florentines so out of season in these parts?
Should I be offering scarves or hot apple tarts?
"Have Florentine, will travel!" I call one last time.
A tug at my sleeve then, a customer sublime?
Of course, it is not, then I feel one last tug.
A pickpocket. Lovely. I start after the thug.
"Florentine, get him!" I cry to my wares,
But he isn't listening, and no one else cares.
The pickpocket flees, and I'm left all alone,
Florentine-less, money-less. I let out a moan.
"Have writer, will travel!" I offer in the end,
Then people glance at me, sensing a trend.
I'm quickly sold for an inordinate sum,
Writing and becoming a professional bum.