In the shadow of the gavel's sound,  
The clerk sat steady, paper-bound.  
A wooden desk, a world of ink,  
Where swift transactions rose and sank.  

Amid the hum of the crowded hall,  
Bidders’ voices would rise and fall.  
The auctioneer, with rhythmic tone,  
Chanted goods from far and home.  

The clerk, a witness to each trade,  
Tallied bids the hammer made.  
Quill to ledger, line by line,  
Recording cattle, corn, or fine.  

Chairs scraped floors of dusty pine,  
Coins exchanged—a clang divine.  
The smell of hay, the hum of steam,  
Mixed with ambition, hopes, and dreams.  

A life of numbers, quick and keen,  
To track the fortunes of the scene.  
The clerk, unseen by most who came,  
Ensured the deals stayed true to name.  

Through seasons’ ebb, from frost to thaw,  
They served the market, served the law.  
The silent force beneath the show,  
An anchor where the currents flow.  

With every signature they penned,  
Their task began, their task would end.  
Yet history holds their work with care—  
The clerks who made the market fair.