I did many jobs in my working life,
anything legal to try and earn a crust
for with a mortgage wife and family
always a case of needs must.
I have sold thing s door to door,
interviewed for market research
as I proceeded towards retirement
backward lurch by backward lurch.
But for the sheer joy of the life
for the sheer pleasure of it all
nothing ever touched the thrill
of my own market stall.
On the road early mornings
hoping there'd be no traffic hitch
then queuing waiting for the Toby
in the hope of a fairly decent pitch.
Pitching up the iron bars
feeling the cold's ungentle bite
long before sunrise and thinking
it was still the middle of the night.
The chatter and the curses ,
the mad hours long dash
to get the stall all sheeted and
prepared with my very best flash.
To await the public.
The customer who's always right
as they seemed to amble
slowly into sight.
With coffee and bacon banjo
firmly grasped one in each hand
ready for the fray and banter
and for the hour's long stand.
How I loved the hustle and bustle
and banter of the daily mad dash;
I'd be doing it still if only I‘d ever
had just a few more sales and cash.