Market Street – Manchester
I sip on my coffee whilst watching the view
of folk passing by on the street.
So I thought I would pen you this little report,
of all of the things that I’ve seen.
Pram-pushing mothers, a group of the brothers,
a child with a Sponge Bob balloon.
A woman that’s proud to be so well endowed,
and old Alan who’s strumming a tune.
There’s a man in a t-shirt, displaying a sketch,
beneath it a slogan that’s rude.
A busker, a beggar, a rocker in leather,
and a chick that is clearly a dude.
A bloke standing still like he’s caught in a wind,
Genies that float in mid-air.
A beatboxer bops with the click of his tongue,
whilst a preacher warns all to beware.
Shoulder to shoulder with shoppers and thieves,
with no way to tell them apart.
Dodging and weaving past phone cover vendors
And greengrocers selling from carts.
Metro trams toot as they warn of approach,
pedestrians jump off the line.
The homeless look up from their old plastic cups,
and ask can you spare them a dime.
Chuggers from Oxfam start closing you down,
determined to pitch you their cause.
You smile and you lie that you’re in such a rush,
and you haven’t a minute to pause.
The stores overflow with those customer folk,
all aching to part with their cash.
Austerity measures? Why, what’s going on?
A recession? Ha, don’t make me laugh!
Loaded like camels with bags from the spree,
husbands are starting to fret.
Wives give a smile and repeat that old lie,
That they’ve only one last thing to get.
The take-away stalls with their oniony smell,
come feast on our wares if you please?
Burgers and hot dogs and chilli with rice,
potatoes with butter or cheese.
African drummers, a guy with a harp,
some old boy dressed up as a cop.
Big issue sellers and cross-dressing fellas,
There’s more to this place than just shops.
Well, that’s my report on all that I’ve seen,
In parts quite bizarre you’ll agree?
But don’t take my word for it, come see yourselves,
to a place that is called Market Street.
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