Ballad of the Blow-In Market
They call me Tourist Information,
happy to be your guide.
If truth be told this town’s a place
in which I take great pride.
You see we are a varied lot
with a welcome at our heart,
(‘cept him what sells theRed Flag,
he’s a miserable old fart). All week I busk on High Street corner
sat outside the Millets store,
playing to the whitewashed glass
‘cos sadly it don’t trade no more.
There’s mums that come and go from Greggs
munching pies upon the benches.
The dads roll in from Toppa Town
downing pints ‘til they’re well senseless.
Come the weekend it’s all change
when the blow-ins come to market.
The pavement’s filled with brogues and beards
our town is quite the smartest.
Patchouli oil and dogs on strings
mix with Towns come to the country -
the minibreaks and second homes,
them ladies what do lunches.
Our market, see, it is the best
for your sourdoughs and falafel,
organic game and free range kale
if you don’t mind the jostle.
There’s Antique Annie with her pots
she sells them on The Shambles.
Having bought them in the chazzer shops
the mark up’s somewhat ample.
Young Davey’s got his bacon stall,
famed for perfectionism:
the punters gorge on pork product
(and that ain’t no euphemism). Come half past ten old Zara’s flogged
all her salted caramels.
Best grab yourself Jack’s smoked garlic
and Dazzer’s golden ‘chanterelles.’ Lunchtime: the streets and stalls are bare
a whole week’s trade done in a day.
There’s some bemoan our town’s dead weeks,
others shrug it’s just the way.
The blow-ins blow out, the chavs return,
the pigeons get their pickings.
Look I’ll say my own farewell
afore them dads give me a kicking. ~~~~~
Wrote this for larks a while ago, still makes me chuckle!