The markets, the markets, the markets are here,
As once again Albert fills with festive cheer,
They’re amazing, I love them, we just have to go,
I can’t wait to see Zippie. Do you think it could snow?
Girls wrap up pretty in Christmasy coats,
As lads throw bratwursts and beer down their throats,
It’s a bustling place where we all come to meet,
When work has finished for mulled wine and a treat.
All food imaginable and all sorts of goods,
From Lancashire hotpot to goulash with spuds.
Profiteroles, pancakes, pies and paella,
Crepes that are smeared in lashings of nuttella.
We’ll meet under Rudolf and merrily swallow,
Hot chocolate with baileys and gooey marshmellow,
Waffles, buntzles, deep fried pigs in blankets,
Coz Albert’s is the most Bavarian of banquets.
The mulled wine is flowing, it’s deliciously hot,
But be careful at home time, it’s deceptively got,
Alcohol concealed, in fact it is laced,
There’s a fall over hidden in its vimtoey taste.
But it’s a nice kind of tipsy as you giggle and talk,
Then nip back to the pig stall for a nice bit of pork,
Your nose looks like Rudolph your cheeks have a flush,
The lavatory beckons, but no chance to rush.
So onto the conveyor belt of folk you must wait,
For people to move on, just don’t let them grate,
As they push and move in every direction,
The crowds are the markets one imperfection.
‘Stop pushing stop pushing, there’s room for us all,’
But the crowds get packed tighter at the Christmas stall,
Crammed in like sardines, no toilets in sight,
You can’t hold it much longer, try as you might.
They’re queuing for beer and they’re queuing for bratwurst
But you’re mulled wine is surging and you’re ready to burst,
They’re queuing for pancakes, or returning a glass,
Your pilgrimage to the toilets is a pain in the ass.
You can’t hold it much longer, you start to feel dizzy,
When did the markets get so unbearably busy?
The loos come into sight, but there’s queues at the door,
Your mulled wines gonna wee out all over the floor.
They’re not bursting, they’re laughing and happily natter,
Don’t they know that your wee is a serious matter?
You smile politely at the toilet queue,
Praying fervently that they don’t need a poo.
‘Are you ok, love, you look a bit stressed?’
‘The disabled’s empty if you’re really that pressed.’
You look over in hope at your wee liberator,
And look back at the queue, you don’t care if they hate yer.
Your need is a must, it’s greater than theirs,
So you rush to the disabled, ignoring their stares,
Heavenly relief as your bladder runs dry,
Pee panic subsides with relief you could cry.
Then back to the markets, the crowds and the battle,
Pushing and shoving and prodded like cattle,
Back with your friends and the memory has passed,
Of the queues and the toilets, it’s all in the past.
The scene is so perfect as the snow starts to fall,
The market, your friends, you’re in love with them all,
You can’t quite remember what it is you’ve just said,
Maybe the mulled wines gone straight to your head.
But regardless, the markets are THE thing to do,
For nearly a month they’ve entertained you,
Night after night for fun with your friends,
You’re dreading the night when it comes to an end.
But the sign on the exit, informs you quite blunt,
Tomorrow the markets will be quite defunct,
They’re packing up later, so the sellers can go,
Back home to their families and Bavarian snow.
And suddenly Albert Square looks so alone,
As you stand in the bustle and inwardly groan,
Tomorrow there’ll be nothing and no one to see,
Except for one solitary … Christmas tree.
Last orders is called time for one last mulled wine,
It’s Christmas, be happy, but you’re sadly resigned,
That the markets are over for one more year,
It’s like Christmas has ended before it got near.
But take stock of your thoughts and start to reason,
Our Albert’s a square for every season,
Not long til you sit here one summery day,
Thinking markets? Did they happen? Here? No way!
Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.