A poem about an alternative market in London that has been running for years and is where hippies and punks and new-wave and even cowboy boot lovers all mix and are crazy together. If you are even in London, go there on a Sunday
It stank
It always stank
I loved the stink
The stench of it
The rotting veg
On the cobbled deck
Slipping and sliding
As the rain fell
"Fuck you, man!"
I only stopped
To pick up a roach
That I dropped
But who cares
As the shouts and calls
The selling and smelling
Of food and waste.
"Kung fu specials?"
Ken Russell's son selling
His DVD b-movies
Of kicks and yells
Su-Lyn cooking
Her noodles - don’t eat them!
They will fuck up your stomach
But they taste so good
"Are you bleeding?"
New piercings
Hope they cleaned up
You got what pierced where?
Oh, god, gonna cry!
But who cares?
We are where life is sold
In polystyrene trays
Where people rip clothes
And sell them as new
Where slave made furniture
Is cheap and chipped
And you can swear
On a t-shirt
But who cares?
You are up to your pits
In the shit
Of the greatest
The craziest
Market on earth
And I loved it so much
When it stank the most
Back in the days
When Camden was hot
With summer and bugsAnd salmonella
But who cares?
We didn't and don't
Cos if we're gonna get done
Get stoned and get fucked
Then Camden Market
Is where I want my luck!
