At the entrance to the fair, where an old lantern gleams,
Sat that shadowed figure– the purveyor of dreams.
An array of bottles of soap, multicoloured straws,
A crowd of children jostling – the sound of oohs and aahs!
Touched with the rainbow-painter’s brush , of many a shade and hue,
Amid the shadowy skies, the cloud of bubbles flew.
Each a little different , each a dream, a hope
That brightens up men’s lives , helping them to cope–
(For moments of thought and leisure are few and far between)
Modern life is played out as an unforgiving, violent scene.
The world’s bigots want all thought to be a regulation grey-
Its only our varied bubble-dreams that promise a better day.