One day at a book shop,
I met a man selling Keats,
For money he wanted to swap,
But I wanted to read WB Yeats.

"Got any Yeats?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money."
"No Yeats here!" said the guy.
He seemed to find it quite funny.

"We've got some lovely Pope,
I'll give you a very fine price."
"I'd rather have that book full of Tropes."
The man blinked rapidly thrice.

The man seemed exceptionally kind,
And his manner was strangely amused.
He wasn't what I would call aesthetically blind,
But great disdain he noticeably oozed.

Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit cruel.
Still he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was only an innocent fool.

So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the book shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearted,
"I can help you I believe."

"Yeats, Keats, you shall find.
Hopes, Pope, Tropes, you can get.
You must now open your mind,
And get down to Kathmandu Temple Market.

So to Kathmandu Temple Market I decided to go,
In search of the Yeats I craved.
The winds it did eerily blow.
But I felt that the day could be saved.

There were stalls selling futures,
Past in many shades.
There were even stalls selling pictures,
People were scattered from many trades

I was greeted by a peculiar lady,
She seemed like me to be rather cruel
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady.
I wondered if she was also a God-abandoned fool.

Before I could open my mouth,
She shouted, "For you, I have some Yeats!"
I headed towards her, to the south,
Past some paintings, and musical beats.

"But how did you know?" I asked,
"Do you want them or not?" she did say.
Silently, the Yeats she passed.
Then vanished before I could pay.

As I walked away I hard a crackle
Or was it, perhaps, a hushed cackle?