Saturday morning oh' what a bore
cars queued up by the score.
All waiting to go into a field
to fill their pockets from their yield
Lets say good morning to you all
car booters and the noise from all
your car hooters. They sell all sorts
of wares, almost everything including
spares. Copper pans and cast iron pots
pirate videos and toys for the tots.
Junk on the ground and on their pasting
tables, decorated china with cracks under
the labels. Every Saturday Morning, there on
the dot just to get their favourate spot.
In come the Dealers, with one thing on
their mind; to snatch a bargain that's rare
to find.They will offer you a price that you cannot
resist, but really they are only taking the piss.
One mans trash is another mans treasure
but can this really be a pleasure.
Up early morning and rushing around
just to get pitched out on muddy ground.
Five pound a pitch and nothing in return
when will us mugs ever learn.
It's like a feeding frenzy when the punters
arrive it's a wonder how they manage to stay
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem