That day in Richmond, a mob of angry women Swarm in the streets and riot for bread or peace. They loot some shops, a few for the bread they need, A few for thieving, most because they are moved By discontent and hunger to do as the rest. The troops are called out. The troops are about to fire, But Davis gets on a wagon and calms the crowd Before the tumbled bodies clutter the street. He never did a better thing with his voice And it should be told. Next day they riot again, But this time the fire is weaker. They are dispersed, A few arrested. Bread grows dearer than ever. The housewives still go out with their market-baskets, But coffee’s four dollars a pound and tea eleven. They come back with a scraping of this and a scrap of that And try to remember old lazy, lagniappe days, The slew-foot negro chanting his devilled crabs Along the street, and the market-women piling The wicker baskets with everything good and fresh; Topping it off with a great green fist of parsley That you used to pretty the sides of the serving-dish And never bothered to eat.