Shill

In the bustling high street’s humming queue,
A voice rings out, bright and slick,
A shill with a grin that’s ever‑true,
Selling dreams with a practised trick.

He whispers of bargains, rare and grand,
While pockets jingle with hopeful sighs,
His words a coloured, sugary hand,
Turning copper hopes into golden sighs.

Yet underneath the polished spiel,
Lies a caution, soft and keen:
The truest treasure’s what you feel,
Not the wares a shill will glean.

So tread the lane with wary tread,
Let laughter blend with wary thought,
For every bright claim that’s loudly said,
Holds a kernel of truth, dearly bought.