The traction engines chug and puff,
Loud-speakers whine and bray,
A thousand lamps illumine the
Delights that feasts purvey,
Excited nippers rush around
With loud recurrent yell;
A roundabout proprietor
Bangs hard upon his bell.
The Dodgems spark and whine and bump
Midst merriment galore,
And patrons totter off the Whip,
And vow they'll have no more.
The Scenic Motors rise and fall
With undulating grace,
And queues of would-be riders wait
To grab a vacant place.
Old ladies throw the nimble dart
(And lookers-on all cheer);
They nearly pin the showman to
His dartboard by the ear.
The tins behind the coconuts
Resound a constant clang
As father misses every nut
And calmly mutters "Hang!"
And loin-clothed pugilists parade
Outside the gaudy booths
And advertise the fistic art
To crowds of local youths;
While close at hand there sounds the roar,
The snarling rise and fall,
Of high-speed motor bikes upon
The breathless "Death Ride" wall.
Then patrons of a lesser sport
Seem to have taken root;
The showman shouts "Od luck" as they
Roll pennies down a chute;
And other feasters celebrate
(And rue the hour, mayhap)
By injudicious mixing of
Rock, nougat, brandy-snap.
And folks all stop and gossip in
The spirit of goodwill,
And everybody's arms are full
Of products of their skill,
With chocolates, toys and coconuts,
With saucepans, kettles, clocks,
With very lurid vases, dolls,
Silk stockings, aprons, socks.
Ah well, let's hope in days ahead
When rationing's no more.
When with the Axis powers our boys
Have settled up the score,
Each night well toddle down the Rec.
(Lit up as bright as day)
And celebrate the Victory Feast
In Rushden's old-time way.
