Come, little children. Let me tell you a story.
Let me tell you about the rivers back home
where we wash, bathe and even quench our thirst;
They said pipe water cannot reach our barrio.
Come, little children. Let me tell you a story.
Let me scare you with aswangs, mumo and kapres.
Your mother chides me to stop weaving tall tales;
My father's an albularyo, my mother's a mangkukulam.
Come, little children. Let me tell you a story.
Let me tell you about the okra and the camote,
because to have rice is a feast we cannot afford.
That is why I went to the city and, eventually, here.
Come, little children. Let me tell you a story.
Let me tell you about filthy, muddy unclothed kids,
of crying hungry mouths and illiterate morons,
of my own children I had left back home.
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