Words and music, Roger Coghill

They call it the Nylon Market

But nylon’s long gone from the scene.

Now tables of jumbled dresses show

Where jumbled lives have been.

Acre on acre of debris,

Components of the past,

Waiting like puppies in a cage

For another life at last.

You need a broom for sweeping?

A coat? A cart to shove?

Old men too sad for weeping

Sell dreams too old for love.

Electric plugs, enamel jugs,

A million kinds of shoes,

You’ll find them all on someone’s stall

To rummage through and choose.

But here’s a little warning

Before you bring your purse

To Nylon’s Sunday morning:

Beware the rogues and worse.

And keep your cash close by you,

And think before you buy

You could be disappointed,

And later wonder why.

And though your wallet’s empty,

Hot tears could fill your eye

When you behold what you’ve been sold

And leave you wondering why.

But though the Nylon Market wares

Are never what they seem

You’re sure to find some pleasure there,

Or even find some treasure there

To satisfy your dream,

To satisfy your dream.

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