THE FAIR
Sharp eyed barkers’ weasel faces, painted nags with flowing
mane,
Candyfloss and gewgaw hoop-la; girls are at the fair again.
Engines, acrid smells of diesel, new-cut grasses, sneaky
drags,
Sour green apples draped in toffee, goldfish, sad in plastic bags.
Here’s an edge-of danger-feeling; what will the clairvoyant
say
When she maps their lives out for them in the booth with the
display
Of testimonials from the famous? (Famous very long ago),
Though her eyes are on the money, still the maidens want to
know
What the future’s going to bring them, when the game of life
will start;
On a wooden swingboat’s cradle, one of them has drawn a
heart.
And the hurdy-gurdy music roars across the coloured lights,
And the boys pose with their rifles, ginger teddies in their
sights,
And the girls are dying for their knees to buckle in a kiss.
Sixteen in the nineteen-sixties; even Elvis can’t match
this.
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