The Beloved Stranger At High St - A Narrative Poem
One day at a dress shop,
I met a man selling shirts,
For money he wanted to swap,
But I really wanted some worts.
"Got any worts?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money."
"No worts here!" said the guy.
He seemed to find it quite funny.
"We've got some lovely hats,
I'll give you a very fine price."
"I'd rather have some dats."
The man blinked rapidly thrice.
The man seemed exceptionally smart,
And his manner was strangely amused.
He wasn't what I would call tart,
Great disdain he noticeably oozed.
Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit beloved.
Still he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was plenty unloved.
So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the dress shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearted,
"I can help you I believe."
"Shirts, worts, you shall find.
Hats, dats, you can get.
You must now open your mind,
And get down to High St Market.
So to High St Market I decided to go,
In search of the worts I craved.
The winds it did eerily blow.
But I felt that the day could be saved.
There were stalls selling cakes,
Dresses in many shades.
There were even stalls selling backaches
People were scattered from many trades
I was greeted by a peculiar lady,
She seemed to be rather beloved
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady.
I wondered if she was at all unloved.
Before I could open my mouth,
She shouted, "For you, I have some worts!"
I headed towards her, to the south,
Past some hats and shirts.
"But how did you know?" I asked,
"Do you want them or not?" she did say.
Silently, the worts she passed.
Then vanished before I could pay.
As I walked away I heard a crackle
Or was it, perhaps, a hushed cackle?