Twas a sunny Summer Sunday
As we picnicked by the river
Eating melon and fried chicken,
Guarding both from ranging hounds,
When in all their Sunday finest
Passed a family slowly walking,
Ethiopians dressed in cotton
Curiously broidered, light as clouds.
Flowing dresses wore the ladies
Shining brightly in the sunlight,
Stitched with crosses hand-embroidered,
Golden threads on white and green.
So the great gray gothic arches
Of the St Johns bridge above us,
Seemed more fitting with their presence,
Moving royally serene.
And the blue-jeaned Portland women,
Who had thrown away their glory,
Were dumbfounded at the splendor
Of the Ethiopian queens.