The Funfair Poem by Martin Ward

The Funfair

Smells and sounds
fill my senses.
Thrills and cries
abound.

Babies and grannies
licking ice-creams,
or finding
new ways
to eat
candy-floss.

Bean-bags
hurled at tin cans,
and plastic
ducks hooked
as they swim.

Egos, tempted
to swing
a hammer,
to impress
a girl
by hitting
the bell.

Carousel horses,
circling up
and down
to the sound of
Light Cavalry
and William Tell.

The smell
of Hot Dogs;
or more precisely,
Onions frying.

Children crying,
laughing,
sometimes sleeping,
with snotty noses
dripping
on their
daddy's shoulder.

Screaming
teenage girls
ride the Big-Dipper,
as spotty youths
watch in case
they catch a glimpse
of knickers.

Bingo Callers
show their prowess
at ‘Legs Eleven' and
‘Two Fat Ladies; sixty-six.'

Mickey-takers
board the Ghost Train,
and aim to scare
a pretty girl.

When the attendant
was not looking,
two lads
set off
loud alarms
by banging
their bottoms
against the Penny Falls
machine.

The Laughing Policeman
come-ventriloquist doll,
rolls around
in annoying
monotony.

Such fun
at The Funfair,
where there's
folks there
having fun.