Here At The County Fair Poem by David Welch

Here we are at the county fair,
log-rolling show right over there,
and in the back, a trained brown bear,
there's racing children everywhere.

Endless carts where the food is fried,
bizarre creations you can try,
funnel cakes always catch my eye,
and ribbon chips are so sublime.

Strange rides that rattle, clank, and shake,
kids seeing how much they can take,
good lord, I hope they have good brakes,
the sights makes adult stomachs quake.

Tents with shinny trinkets galore,
the stuff you rarely see in stores,
cheap weapons, tie-dyed beads and more,
glow-sticks and fake tattoos deplored.

A plethora of carny games,
the ring-toss and BB guns reign,
are they rigged? It wracks the brain,
and still we play them, all the same.

In the back is the livestock show,
how massive can a Holstein grow?
Draft horses pulling, on the go,
from countless farms I didn't know.

On the stage is a country band,
cheered on by some fair-weather fans,
back in the nineties they were grand,
now they play fairs across the land.

At the grandstand: the tractor pull,
just in case things were getting dull,
how this started? Some people mull,
others just cheer as tractors bull.

Some might look on, haughtily glare,
say they'd never be caught dead there,
for their nonsense I have no care
here at this epic country fair.