We heard it, me and Hipparch,
And rubbed our hands. You see
We were there to make some money
In the land of Galilee.
We had stock in plenty. We waited.
I wiped the scales, and my chum
Re-stacked the loaves. We bellowed,
But no one seemed to come.
“Fresh fish!” I bawled my lungs out:
“Nice bread!” poor Hipparch cried,
But what did they do? Sat down there
In fifties, side by side,
In ranks, the whole five thousand.
Then—well, the prophet spoke,
And broke the five little fishes,
And the two little loaves he broke.
And fed the whole five thousand.
Why, yes! So gorged they slept.
And we stood beaten and bankrupt.
Poor Hipparch swore and wept.
They gathered up twelve baskets
Full from the loaves of bread;
Five little fishes—twelve baskets
Of fragments after they fed.
And we—what was there to do
But dump our stock on the sand?
That’s what we got for our labor
And thrift, in such a land.
We met a man near Damascus
Who had joined the mystagogues.
He said: “I was wicked as you men
Until I lost my hogs.”
Now Hipparch and I are going
To Athens, beautiful, free.
No more adventures for us two
In the land of Galilee.