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Every market is in transition.

quote by Kenneth Lay
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Market Square Heroes

(derek dick, mark kelly, steve rothery, peter trewavas, michael pointer, brian jellyman, diz minnett)
I found smog at the end of my rainbow
I found my thoughts shift slowly into phase
Declared the constitution of the walkway
I realise its time to plan the day, the day
Im a market square hero gathering the storms to troop
Cause Im a market square hero speeding the beat of the streetpulse
Are you following me, are you following me?
Well suffer my pretty warriors and follow me
I got a golden handshake that nearly broke my arm
I left the ranks of shuffling graveyard people
I got rust upon my hands from the padlocked factory gates
Silent chimneys provide the silent steeples
Cause Im a market square hero gathering the storms to troop
Cause Im a market square hero speeding the beat of the streetpulse, the streetpulse
Are you following me? are you following me?
Well suffer my pretty children and follow me, follow me
Change, change, change!
Change, change, change!
I am your antichrist show me allegiance
Are you following me
I am your antichrist pledge to me defiance
Are you following me
Suffer my pretty warriors
Suffer my fallen child
Are you following me
The time has come to conquer and Ill provide your end
Suffer!
We march!
I give peace signs when I wage war in the disco
Im the warrior in the ultra violet haze
Armed with antisocial insecurity
I plan the path of destiny from this maze
Cause Im a market square hero gathering the storms to troop
Cause Im a market square hero speeding the beat of the streetpulse, the streetpulse
Are you following me? are you following me?
Well suffer my fallen angels and follow me
Im the market square hero
Im the market square hero
Were market square heroes
Were the market square heroes
Are you following me?
Im the market square hero!

song performed by Marillion
Added by Lucian Velea
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Black Market White Baby Dealer

My black market white baby dealer
Is hunting around overseas
My black market white baby dealer
Brings back clean, fresh white babies to me
Clean, fresh white babies to me
My black market white baby dealer
Is rooting around overseas
My black market white baby dealer
Kidnaps clean, fresh white babies for me
Clean, fresh white babies for me
My smile is dime a dozen
My lips are cherry red
My eyes are blue like the sky is blue
I got good shoulders under my head
I look like your mother
I look like your great-aunt
So sit me down in the family photo
And everyone tells me that i, I look just like you
My black market white baby dealer
Is hunting around overseas
My black market white baby dealer
Brings back clean, fresh white babies to me
He brings back
Oh my god, he brings back
He brings back clean, fresh, white expensive babies
He brings back
Oh charlie, he brings back
He brings back clean, fresh, white expensive babies
I come post-production
I dont need natal care
Im already fully assembled
Down to the very last part, its all there
So take me to your family
So take me to your home
Buddy, take me in as your next generation
And Ill take you out of the lost one and into mine
My black market white baby dealer
Is hunting around overseas
My black market white baby dealer
Brings back clean, fresh white babies to me
Clean, fresh white babies to me
Clean, fresh white babies to me

song performed by Liz Phair
Added by Lucian Velea
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Black Market

Wasted face that swallowed time
With armageddon crawling
Shes insane, this friend of mine
And shes always bawling
Hear her calling
Hear her calling you
Hear her calling
Hear her calling you
Theres a place within her mind
With graves already falling
Shes insane, this friend of mine
And shes always bawling
Hear her calling
Hear her calling you
Hear her calling
Hear her calling you
Shes preparing for the flood
The deluge and the sliding mud
Shes preparing for the flood
Running on black market blood
Black market blood
Wasted face that swallowed time
With armageddon crawling
Shes insane, this friend of mine
And shes always bawling
Hear her calling
Hear her calling you
Hear her calling
Hear her calling you
Shes preparing for the flood
The deluge and the sliding mud
Shes preparing for the flood
Running on black market blood
Black market blood
Black market blood
Black market blood
Black market

song performed by Placebo
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tvc 15

Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh
Ohh
Up every evening bout half eight or nine
I give my complete attention to a very good friend of mine
Hes quadraphonic, hes a, hes got more channels
So hologramic, oh my t v c one five
I brought my baby home, she, she sat around forlon
She saw my t v c one five, and then babys gone, she
She crawled right in, oh my
She crawled right in my
So hologramic, oh my t v c one five
Oh, so demonic, oh my t v c one five
Maybe if I pray every, each night I sit there pleading
Send back my dream test baby, shes my main feature
My t v c one five, he, he just stares back unblinking
So hologramic, oh my t v c one five
One of these nights I may just
Jump down that rainbow way, be with my baby, then
Well spend some time together
So hologramic, oh my t v c one five
My babys in there someplace, loves rating in the sky
So hologramic, oh my t v c one five
Transition
Transmission
Transition
Transmission
Oh my t v c one five, oh oh, t v c one five
Oh my t v c one five, oh oh, t v c one five
Oh my t v c one five, oh oh, t v c one five
Oh my t v c one five, oh oh, t v c one five
Maybe if I pray every, each night I sit there pleading
Send back my dream test baby, shes my main feature
My t v c one five, he, he just stares back unblinking
So hologramic, oh my t v c one five
One of these nights I may just
Jump down that rainbow way, be with my baby, then
Well spend some time together
So hologramic, oh my t v c one five
My babys in there someplace, loves rating in the sky
So hologramic, oh my t v c one five
Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh
Transition
Transmission
Transition
Transmission
Oh my t v c one five, oh oh, t v c one five

[...] Read more

song performed by David Bowie
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Two-An'-Six

Merry voices chatterin',
Nimble feet dem patterin',
Big an' little, faces gay,
Happy day dis market day.

Sateday, de marnin' break,
Soon, soon market-people wake;
An' de light shine from de moon
While dem boy, wid pantaloon
Roll up ober dem knee-pan,
'Tep across de buccra lan'
To de pastur whe' de harse
Feed along wid de jackass,
An' de mule cant' in de track
Wid him tail up in him back,
All de ketchin' to defy,
No ca' how dem boy might try.

In de early marnin'-tide,
When de cocks crow on de hill
An' de stars are shinin' still,
Mirrie by de fireside
Hots de coffee for de lads
Comin' ridin' on de pads
T'rown across dem animul--
Donkey, harse too, an' de mule,
Which at last had come do'n cool.
On de bit dem hol' dem full:
Racin' ober pastur' lan',
See dem comin' ebery man,
Comin' fe de steamin' tea
Ober hilly track an' lea.

Hard-wuk'd donkey on de road
Trottin' wid him ushal load,
Hamper pack' wi' yam an' grain,
Sour-sop, and Gub'nor cane.

Cous' Sun sits in hired dray,
Drivin' 'long de market way;
Whole week grindin' sugar cane
T'rough de boilin' sun an' rain,
Now, a'ter de toilin' hard,
He goes seekin' his reward,
While he's thinkin' in him min'
Of de dear ones lef behin',
Of de loved though ailin' wife,
Darlin' treasure of his life,
An' de picknies, six in all,
Whose 'nuff burdens 'pon him fall:

[...] Read more

poem by Claude McKay
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Ian The Palladium Demon Transports Into An Angel Of Light

Preacher praying-mantis
feeding springy before palladium
buying plying pliable plebeian
demand corpse plight medium

bearish plead plausible plastic
bought corpulent corpuscle ingested
inodorous inoffensive inoperative amounts
inquested ingested inquisition indictment.

Inlet inmate structural deficit decoy buy input
myth surplus succumbs as succulently sucked.
Tearing torn lion’s share profit festering festive
market reality competitors flesh fidelity defiled.

Copyright © Terence George Craddock
Written in September 1996 on the 29.9.1996.12
Alan Williamson, an analyst for HSBC in 2003, made a bearish prediction concerning Russian PGM Stocks. To quote Williamson, the 'palladium market, where the fundamentals of the market look almost unreservedly grim, ...We expect the market to move into structural oversupply, with ongoing downward pressure on prices. This bearish inaccuracy was due to the Russian government dumping large amounts of a Soviet Era palladium stockpile onto the global market. In reality Russian dumping masked the real market fundamental, which is a structural deficit, not a surplus of palladium. The Russian stockpile will soon be exhausted, existing mine production and recycling will not meet existing industry demand for palladium. “Emerging new demands in areas like palladium jewelry, fuel cell for mobile electronic, and even cold fusion, will create an even more acute shortage situation, ... driving the future palladium price to an exponentially increased purchase price.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Listening to every Tom, Dick and Donkey

Come, we have a story, said the Old Man. Come, sit and I shall tell you all a little tale of a donkey, a boy and his father…and of strangers too…and many a busybody…
And the children sat round the campfire and the Old Man began his tale…

One day
(and this is many, many
uncountable days ago)
Father called Son
and he said:
‘Son
you are grown now
into a fine young lad
and you must learn
how to buy and sell
and make a profit

‘So, come let us go
you and I
to the market to see
what silver coins we can get
for this old donkey
in our shed’

2

And so Son and Dad
set out for the town market
across the sandy and rocky miles
and some way off
Dad grew tired and he said:

‘Ah, Son
this walk tires me and so
I shall ride the donkey
while you walk by the side;
so, come let us go
you and I
to the market to see
what silver coins we can get
for this old donkey
that I shall ride’

[...] Read more

poem by Raj Arumugam
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All Day

Well Im hiding my eyes from the morning sun
And I keep on working till the work is all done
But a voice in my head keeps ticking away
As the sweats hosed down from yet another day
Well he works hard
And he lives hard
And he breaks his back without nothing to gain
While the boss man sits around and drinks champagne
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one transition
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one decision
Well Im peeling the blisters off my working hand
Is that what it takes to make you understand?
That its something you read, not something you meant
To be slaving away without a shred of integrity
He worked hard
And he lived hard
And he broke his back without nothing to say
While the man in control was just laughing away
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one transition
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one decision
Was it something you read?
Was it something you meant?
Was it something you said?
Or was it heaven sent?
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one transition
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one decision

song performed by Ministry
Added by Lucian Velea
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Roads To Madness

Most of this is memory now
Ive gone too far to turn back now
Im not quite what I thought I was but
Then again Im maybe more
The blood-words promised, Ive spoken
Releasing the names from the circle
Maybe I can leave here now and, o
Transcend the boundaries
For now Im standing here
Im awaiting this grand transition
The future is but past forgotten
On the road to madness
Times measure rusts as it crawls
I see its face in the looking glass - stop
This screaming laughter hides, the pain of its reality
Black, the door was locked I opened
And now Ive paid that price ten-fold over
Knowledge - was it worth such torment, oh
To see the far side of shadow
And still Im standing here
Im awaiting this grand transition
Im a fool in search of wisdom
And Im on the road to madness
Yes, Im on the road to madness
Im awaiting endlessly
Pounding rhythms echo me
Wont you take me somewhere far beyond the void
And still Im standing here
Im awaiting this grand transition
Maybe one day, oh Ill meet you, and well
Walk the roads to madness
Yes, were on the road to madness
Oh, I think theyve come to take me
I hear the voice, but theres no-one to see
I cant scream, too late its time
Stay on the course to pass
Youll never find the answer
To a place where darkened angels
Seemed lost and never found
Scream to see the light of
Forming figures fast behind you
Lay the past in the wind to spin
And your fate will sail beyond the open plains
Sail with angels onward
Live or die for the chosen one said
Saber sights cast a spell behind you
And they lock in all around
Free the scene insider
Never looking back to find why
Ride a course till the end of time

[...] Read more

song performed by Queensryche
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A Moment Of Transition

In all lives
where great character
is attained...
comes a moment
requiring
exceptional transition.

Sometimes
historically to achieve
something revolutionary...
profoundly better
something imminently bad
must transpire first.

Not to recognize
the necessity
effort required...
to alleviate
inhuman pain
is an inherent evil.

Not to recognize
the personal necessity;
required to alleviate...
inhuman catastrophic pain;
when possible is to exhibit
callous inhuman indifference.

Not to individually make
a stand for our fellow man;
during times exhibiting...
evil in excessive transition;
is the most destructive tragedy
inditing the entire human race.

Not to recognize
the personal necessity;
necessary in submitting to risk...
this enacting pain of transition;
sacrifice which must be taken
is the most destructive tragedy of all.

Copyright © Terence George Craddock
See also Stone Cross Prologue, Stone Cross, A Moral Civilized World, Peaked Cap; Skull-And-Crossbones Badge, Dagmar Topf: A Defence Of Family Furnaces and Struck Down With A Thunderbolt.

The topic of this poem addresses inhuman regimes such as Nazi Germany and the moral obligation of free governments and individuals to resist them. Herman Göring, ordered SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, to begin The Final Solution on July 31 1941. Heydrich organizes The Wannsee Conference, for January 20 1942, the date generally agreed upon as the start of the Holocaust.
The exhibited ‘callous inhuman indifference’ mentioned, can perhaps best be understood with reference to a quotation from George Orwell, reflecting on the coming of World War II. Orwell said “When one thinks of the lies and betrayals of those years, the cynical abandonment of one ally after another, the imbecile optimism of the Tory press, the flat refusal to believe that dictators meant war, even when they shouted it from house tops, the inability of the moneyed class to see anything wrong whatever in concentration camps, ghettoes, massacres, and undeclared wars, one is driven to feel that moral decadence played its part as well as mere stupidity.”

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Clare Market

In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare
Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there;
That I take a delight on a Saturday night
In walking that way and in viewing the sight.
For it's here that one sees all the objects that please--
New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese,
For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys,
And baubles galore while discretion enjoys--
But here I forbear, for I really despair
Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare.

A rich man comes down from the elegant town
And looks at it all with an ominous frown;
He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries
Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies;
And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose
Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose;
And free of the crowd, he admits he is proud
That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed;
He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere,
And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.

But the child that has come from the gloom of the slum
Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum;
He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies,
And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise
At the goodies they vend and the toys without end--
And it's oh! if he had but a penny to spend!
But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amaze
At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze--
What sense of despair in this world can compare
With that of the waif in the market of Clare?

So, on Saturday night, when my custom invites
A stroll in old London for curious sights,
I am likely to stray by a devious way
Where goodies are spread in a motley array,
The things which some eyes would appear to despise
Impress me as pathos in homely disguise,
And my battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend,
So long as I've got 'em (or chums that will lend);
And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare
That there's beauty and good in the market of Clare.

poem by Eugene Field
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Tam o' Shanter

"Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke." - Gawin Douglas

When chapmen billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet,
As market days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame.
Gathering her brows like gathering storm.
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonie lasses.)

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L[or]d's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale:— Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a verra brither—
They had been fou for weeks thegither!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Burns (1790)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Jenny

Lazy laughing languid Jenny,
Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea,
Whose head upon my knee to-night
Rests for a while, as if grown light
With all our dances and the sound
To which the wild tunes spun you round:
Fair Jenny mine, the thoughtless queen
Of kisses which the blush between
Could hardly make much daintier;
Whose eyes are as blue skies, whose hair
Is countless gold incomparable:
Fresh flower, scarce touched with signs that tell
Of Love's exuberant hotbed:—Nay,
Poor flower left torn since yesterday
Until to-morrow leave you bare;
Poor handful of bright spring-water
Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face;
Poor shameful Jenny, full of grace
Thus with your head upon my knee;—
Whose person or whose purse may be
The lodestar of your reverie?
This room of yours, my Jenny, looks
A change from mine so full of books,
Whose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth,
So many captive hours of youth,—
The hours they thieve from day and night
To make one's cherished work come right,
And leave it wrong for all their theft,
Even as to-night my work was left:
Until I vowed that since my brain
And eyes of dancing seemed so fain,
My feet should have some dancing too:—
And thus it was I met with you.
Well, I suppose 'twas hard to part,
For here I am. And now, sweetheart,
You seem too tired to get to bed.
It was a careless life I led
When rooms like this were scarce so strange
Not long ago. What breeds the change,—
The many aims or the few years?
Because to-night it all appears
Something I do not know again.
The cloud's not danced out of my brain—
The cloud that made it turn and swim
While hour by hour the books grew dim.
Why, Jenny, as I watch you there,—
For all your wealth of loosened hair,
Your silk ungirdled and unlac'd
And warm sweets open to the waist,
All golden in the lamplight's gleam,—

[...] Read more

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Hermann And Dorothea - I. Kalliope

FATE AND SYMPATHY.

'NE'ER have I seen the market and streets so thoroughly empty!
Still as the grave is the town, clear'd out! I verily fancy
Fifty at most of all our inhabitants still may be found there.
People are so inquisitive! All are running and racing
Merely to see the sad train of poor fellows driven to exile.
Down to the causeway now building, the distance nearly a league is,
And they thitherward rush, in the heat and the dust of the noonday.
As for me, I had rather not stir from my place just to stare at
Worthy and sorrowful fugitives, who, with what goods they can carry,
Leaving their own fair land on the further side of the Rhine-stream,
Over to us are crossing, and wander through the delightful
Nooks of this fruitful vale, with all its twistings and windings.
Wife, you did right well to bid our son go and meet them,
Taking with him old linen, and something to eat and to drink too,
Just to give to the poor; the rich are bound to befriend them.
How he is driving along! How well he holds in the horses!
Then the new little carriage looks very handsome; inside it
Four can easily sit, besides the one on the coachbox.
This time he is alone; how easily-turns it the corner!'
Thus to his wife the host of the Golden Lion discoursed,
Sitting at ease in the porch of his house adjoining the market.
Then replied as follows the shrewd and sensible hostess
'Father, I don't like giving old linen away, for I find it
Useful in so many ways, 'tis not to he purchased for money
Just when it's wanted. And yet to-day I gladly have given
Many excellent articles, shirts and covers and suchlike;
For I have heard of old people and children walking half-naked.
Will you forgive me, too, for having ransacked your presses?
That grand dressing-gown, cover'd with Indian flowers all over,
Made of the finest calico, lined with excellent flannel,
I have despatch'd with the rest; 'tis thin, old, quite out of fashion.'

But the worthy landlord only smiled, and then answer'd
I shall dreadfully miss that ancient calico garment,
Genuine Indian stuff! They're not to be had any longer.
Well! I shall wear it no more. And your poor husband henceforward
Always must wear a surtout, I suppose, or commonplace jacket,
Always must put on his boots; good bye to cap and to slippers!'

'See,' continued his wife, 'a few are already returning
Who have seen the procession, which long ago must have pass'd by.
See how dusty their shoes are, and how their faces are glowing
Each one carries a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
I, for one, wouldn't hurry and worry myself in such weather
Merely to see such a sight! I'm certain to hear all about it.'

And the worthy father, speaking with emphasis, added
'Such fine weather seldom lasts through the whole of the harvest

[...] Read more

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Tam O'Shanter

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousin, at the nappy,
And gettin fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses.)

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roarin fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied, that, late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Ot catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale:-Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Burns
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White Babies

My black market white baby dealer
Is hunting around overseas
My black market white baby dealer
Brings back clean, fresh white babies to me
He brings back
Oh my god, he brings back
He brings back clean, fresh, white expensive babies
My smile is dime a dozen
My lips are cherry red
My eyes are blue like the sky is blue
I got good shoulders under my head
I look like your mother
I look like your great-aunt
Sit me down in your family photo
And everyone tells me that i, I look just like you
(I changed this verse for you)
My black market white baby dealer
Is hunting around overseas
My black market white baby dealer
Brings back clean, fresh white babies to me
Clean, fresh white babies to me
Clean, fresh white babies to me

song performed by Liz Phair
Added by Lucian Velea
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Market Square

I had a penny,
A bright new penny,
I took my penny
To the market square.
I wanted a rabbit,
A little brown rabbit,
And I looked for a rabbit
'Most everywhere.

For I went to the stall where they sold sweet lavender
("Only a penny for a bunch of lavender!").
"Have you got a rabbit, 'cos I don't want lavender?"
But they hadn't got a rabbit, not anywhere there.

I had a penny,
And I had another penny,
I took my pennies
To the market square.
I did want a rabbit,
A little baby rabbit,
And I looked for rabbits
'Most everywhere.

And I went to the stall where they sold fresh mackerel
("Now then! Tuppence for a fresh-caught mackerel!").
"Have you got a rabbit, 'cos I don't like mackerel?"
But they hadn't got a rabbit, not anywhere there.

I found a sixpence,
A little white sixpence.
I took it in my hand
To the market square.
I was buying my rabbit
I do like rabbits),
And I looked for my rabbit
'Most everywhere.

So I went to the stall where they sold fine saucepans
("Walk up, walk up, sixpence for a saucepan!").
"Could I have a rabbit, 'cos we've got two saucepans?"
But they hadn't got a rabbit, not anywhere there.

I had nuffin',
No, I hadn't got nuffin',
So I didn't go down
To the market square;
But I walked on the common,
The old-gold common...
And I saw little rabbits
'Most everywhere!

[...] Read more

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Market Day

There’s a market in our town, two days a week.
It’s nice to have a browse and take a quick peek.
There’s a riot of colours up and down the street,
And mouth-watering smells from all the food to eat.

There’s an explosion of different sights and sounds,
And dozens of people are leisurely milling around.
At the market, there’s always a great atmosphere,
And there’s nothing for sale there which is too dear.

A mobile van serves up spicy German bratwurst,
Plus a variety of different drinks to quench your thirst.
On one stall, they sell leather purses and handbags:
Cheap ones, plus designer ones, for the would-be WAGs.

In his mobile truck, a rotund butcher chops up some meat:
He promises his customers that his prices can’t be beat.
There’s a stall which sells low price pet supplies.
This is always a big attraction for the penny wise.

Hoping that none of his food will end up in the waste,
The Mediterranean food stall holder offers a free taste.
There are crisps and cakes stacked in crates,
Which are not long off of their sell by date.

From yet another stall, drifts an amazing perfumed smell.
They sell a variety of novelty soap and bath bombs as well.
A Jeweller displays a variety of items made of silver and gold.
He also buys any old unwanted jewellery, if it is being sold.

Then, of course, there’s the doughnut man –
Of this particular stall, I’m a very big fan!
Each market trader has their own unique call,
Trying to attract the customers to their stall.

They brave all weathers – the heat and the freezing cold,
Hoping that, by the close of day, their wares will be sold.
At the end of the day, there are real bargains to be found,
Such as a box of mixed fruit or veg for only a pound.

Come late afternoon, they pack up after a long day.
They load up their vans and are soon on their way.
When they have all gone, all that is left is a space,
And, of the market, there isn’t left a single trace.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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On Automanic

On automanic!
People in a panic.
Looking for a switch...
That stops the twitching,
And the itch.

We're standing frantic,
In the midst of antics...
Trying to find,
Reality
Somewhere in our minds!

On automanic!
People in a panic.
Looking for a switch...
That stops the twitching,
And the itch.

We're standing frantic,
In the midst of antics...
Hoping in time,
Darkness
Doesn't leave us blind!

It seems we have been,
Too busy being dizzy.
Taking the wrong medication!
We've come to deadends,
Thinking turning back was easy.
But we hid inside...
Behind lies,
That fight us!

We market...
Rascism!
We market...
Disrespect and fast rejection!
We market...
Fear!
We market...
Peace to tease in pieces!

Trying to find...
A few kind reminders!

On automanic!
Psychomanic panic.
Looking for a fix and quick!
To stop this mental fit that's sick!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Asses

'I KNOW where I'd get
An ass that would do,
If I had the money
A pound or two.'

Said a ragged man
To my uncle one day;
He got the money
And went on his way.

And after that time
In market or fair
I'd look at the asses
That might be there.

And wonder what kind
Of an ass would do
For a ragged man
With a pound or two.

O the black and roan horses the street would fill,
Their manes and tails streaming, and they standing still,

And their owners, the men of estate, would be there,
Refusing gold guineas for a colt or a mare.

And one, maybe, riding up and down like a squire
So that buyers from Dublin might see and admire

The hunter or racer come to be sold
And be willing and ready to pay out their gold.

With men slouching beside them and buyers not near
It's no wonder the asses held down head and ear.

They had been sold or in by-ways bought
For a few half-crowns tied up in a knot,

And no one so poor as to buy one might come
To that fair that had horses so well prized at home!

And then it fell out
That at Arva or Scrabbey,
At some down-county fair,
Or Mohill or Abbey,

On two asses I happened
Without duress or dole
They were there in the market,
A dam and her foal.

[...] Read more

poem by Padraic Colum
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