Papa San said, “It’s not enough”,
so we shouted even louder.
The sweat poured from his yellow skin
as toward the stage we crowded.

He saw our surge,
he sensed our urge
so to the throng he ceded
“Go my child, show them your best,
for you are theirs this evening.”

As she went on and clothes came off
for once we had no voices.
No cheers or whistles or slow hand claps
not even eyelids blinking.

From our eyes the teardrops fell,
the hope of memory fading.
‘Cos the girls back home were not like this,
they all had indoor plumbing.