Whose child this is, I can not say,
I'd love to stop and watch him play,
But I've got things to buy and sell,
My world is real and his is clay.
Perhaps, I have some time to dwell,
Before returning to my cell,
I pause a moment to look back,
A tiny beeper breaks my spell.
Somewhere down the road I pack,
All my things into a sack,
So much I have to take with me,
Yet sorrow for the time I lack.