Hot from the trader in heirlooms
And knocked-off stock,
The ornaments are posted to their stations
Or marked down in wasted years.
 
Already it’s old hat.
Someone says Bring on the clones
But no-one laughs.
Fake Rolexes measure the silence.
 
Maybe you were there before
In a previous life,
Looking for a souvenir, something retro,
Something that’s really you.
 
Don’t bother to show us.
 
We are the guys
Who sell this junk.
 
We get to eat,
You get the glory.
 
It’s called business.