In a small poverty struck village,
There are no modern houses or machines,
Everything seems dark and brown,
As loads of children scuttle about,
Laughter and games are free to play,
Most have bare feet to run around on,
Scarcely clothed for protection,
Against the harsh wind and cold,
They invite any guest they could find,
Literally dragging them inside home,
As adults force one to eat and drink,
The tea is brewing on the fire,
There is hot bread with fresh cheese,
They are rich feasts for anyone hungry,
The host would be offended,
If the guest chose not to eat,
They love to share their world,
And all that is theirs is yours,
They have big wealthy hearts,
Hospitality runs in the veins of Turks,
Inbred in the culture of the Middle East.