On Friday afternoons, the stalls appear,
All scattered through the square like fungal spores.
They’re chic boutiques in tents and out of doors,
With incense sticks and oddly flavoured beer.
Organic gin and homemade apple jam;
These souvenirs that everyone will hate.
A taxidermist, stuffing while you wait.
Authentic sculptures made of Parma ham.
You’ve seen the knitted pants and leather snoods –
Plus greasepaint (for the folk of Grimly Down).
But, if you need some carrots, then you’re screwed.
Your only hope is Tescos, out of town.
And if you can’t afford the bus ride there
Then maybe you should go and live elsewhere?