Broadford Bazaar

Dirty white caravans down narrow roads sailing.
Vivas, Cortinas, weaving in their wake.
With hot, red-faced drivers, horns’ flattened fifths wailing,
Putting trust in blind corners as they overtake.
And it’s “All come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car.”
There’s home-dyed woolens, and wee plastic Cuillins
The day of the Broadford Bazaar.
Out of the north, no oil-rigs are drifting.
And jobs for the many are down to the few.
Blue-bottle choppers, they visit no longer.
Like flies to the jampots, they were just passing through.

And it’s “All come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car”
Where once stood oil-rigs so phallic
There’s only swear-words in Gaelic
To say at the Broadford bazaar.

All kinds of people come down for the opening.
Crofters and cottars, white settlers galore.
And up on the hill, there’s an old sheep that’s dying,
But it had two new lambs born just a fortnight before.

And it’s “All come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car.”
We’ll take pounds, francs and dollars from the well-heeled,
And stamps from the Green Shield.
The day of the Broadford Bazaar.