MARKET MELEE

[Magical places, markets]

Oh, the glory of the Market, with its bustle, crowd and crash,
Where grimy palms reach eagerly to part me from my cash.
Dawn had barely broken when the stalls were setting up,
While the coffee urn got going - when I've done, I'll buy a cup.
Underfoot, squashed cabbage stalks and flimsy, splintered crates;
Behind the stalls, the cheerful sellers chatter with their mates.
The frosty air hangs redolent, a rich melee of smells,
And money changes hands, its soundtrack electronic bells.
Striped awnings flap and counters lurch, their well-kicked trestles holding
Such enticing loads of this and that - hey! Watch it! That one's folding!
I pause a while to stand and taste and savour all this glory,
Then I launch into the fray, my tattered list my life's whole story.
Tight muffled in my anorak, my burdened arms soon aching -
There's the yelling of the barker with rich bargains for my taking!
And there's the raucous chap who works the crowd for likely bids,
While I shove and push, my weighted elbows battered by slick kids.
There! That's the joint, the greens and spuds; I've loaded up the fruit.
Ooh - look at that striped pinny - I'll have that. I think that's cute.
There. That's the lot. I'm going home. My bolt's shot for today,
But may the glory that's the Market never ever pass away!
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