In these mountain lands we walk,
Town to down, village to village,
Up the gully, down the creek
So little to eat out there,
besides the things we must seek.
Why won't they just sell
a bowl of rice with dal soup,
or the noodles the people of bhot so love,
why won't they give yams,
fried or even boiled
in exchange of our silver coins?
Why must we cook, why must we boil,
and forgoing that, have nothing to eat but the harsh cold?
The taverns lie,
On the outskirts of the village way,
Stinky rice soup they serve
All in the night and even the day,
Oh so but why won't they
give us that rice, just freshly cooked
and maybe even a hearty soup
of a freshly butchered goat?
Oh what a feast that would be
If they boiled some greens too
Add garlic and ginger to the side
And a handful of salt,
A royal treat for travelers, such a meal
no questions on the size of the bill!
Oh why and why won't they
Just cook of something odd,
To help us fill up,
and get us going on the way,
without having us in there stay?
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