The Pot Fair

Poem By Barbara Corwena Boon

It comes into Preston once every year
The annual Pot Fair, so I hear.
The stalls are assembled under canopies white
With pots and dishes and glasses all bright.
It gives us a thrill when the stallholder shouts ---
"come closer everybody, the price is just right,
who'll give me so much for this vase?" he will say.
And bang goes his hammer till it shakes the display.
:I won't ask for five pound nor not even three,
Give me just one pound and take it away."
The crowds shove and push to get near the front
While those nearest the stall start to panic and grunt.
"Stay calm" shouts the stallholder 'there's a dozen of these."
As he calls to his helpers to crawl underneath,
When all have calmed down the lads come up top.
The stallholder shouts "You won't buy cheaper in shops."
He's shouted all day and now he's gone hoarse
And wonders however he'll finish the course
For the crowds will be back after their tea
To join in more banter for a bargain you see.
It's really hard graft at these Pot Fairs, believe me,
Trying to set folk on a spending spree.
But he can't take it back or give it folk free
Cos the profit he makes has to keep more than three
So remember Prestonians this year they'll be back
To offer you more bargains and bit of backchat
For that's been the tradition for years gone back
Since my Mam brought me here to buy a little pot cat.

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