The Basket lady carries her load,

Like a queen wearing her tiara,

Navigating her way as if in the Sahara,

On her way to sell her produce,

Pomegranates, guava and melon juice,

Just to name a few of her fruits,

Weary from basking in the hot sun,

She sprinkles limacol to keep her cool,

Because where she dwells there is no pool,

Coronation market can get so very hot,

She feels like gungo soup boiling in a pot,

Making sales worth a quattie or two,

She fans the flies with a little, "Shoo!"

The end of her day has finally come,

She gathers her basket and starts for home,

Happy and content to be her own boss,

However humble, with minimal cost.