Our Blog


Market Street bustles with creative invention,
As wannabes battle for musical attention,

Where once the shoppers came just to shop,
Now street artists sing all kinds of pop,

All of them tributes in various guises,
And every day brings new wannabe surprises,

Rappers rap with their beat boxing friends,
The lino’s down for street dancing trends,

They dream of the big time and a stage for their act,
Just like George Sampson they’ve agreed to a pact,

To dance on the streets and a life of performing,
And hope that one day Cowell comes calling,

Maybe you’re passing the next ce-leb-rity,
Who’ll break through X factor like Misha B,

But there’s more going on to demand your eye,
Selling, singing or begging as you pass them by,

Like the guy with that whistle thing stuck in his gob,
His whistling shrieks making all songbirds sob,

The recorder player until dusk and from noon,
The one that continually makes up his own tune,

The blind guitarist strumming Shadows all day,
His loyal Labrador guarding his pay,

White statues frozen, the man that won’t fall,
Street artists painting, you’ll remember them all,

But it ain’t just the street acts that reside on this street,
The call from the fruit sellers; a pound friendly treat,

Big Issue sellers that pepper the chat,
Two free staples, last one, fancy that,

That homeless guy who wants e-leven p,
What’s wrong with twelve or twenty three?

Blow up Dora’s sold from a trolley,
Where spidermen dangle next to a brolly,

Don’t walk behind him, move quickly with haste
Or soapy bubbles will be blown in your face,

The charity workers attack from all angles,
Smile politely despite how it wrangles,

Buy floating balloons or sign up for the army,
If my granddad saw this, he’d think we’d gone barmy,

For no longer do we walk down Market Street,
For clothes for our kids or something to eat.

A quid here, a quid there, they all want my money,
And this is the bit that you might find quite funny,

Surrounded by street art of every ilk,
I only stepped out for a carton of milk,

My fingers search deep to see what I’ve got,
But my pockets are empty; I’ve flicked ‘em the lot..

Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.

Doorway Under The Arches