Spiel

Spiel

In the market square he stands, a barrel‑chested showman,
His voice a brass band spilling over cobblestones,
A torrent of patter that rolls like the Thames at flood,
Each word a bright farthing, each pause a clink of change.

He spins tales of miracle tonics and midnight trains,
Of distant lands where tea grows on silver trees,
His audience—ladies in wool‑coated flats,
Gents with flat caps and a pocketful of hope—
Leans in, catching the rhythm of his spiel,
A patter as familiar as the chime of Big Ben.

Yet beneath the glitter lies a craft honed in back alleys,
Where the patter is polished like a soldier’s boots,
Each sentence a calculated step, each flourish a salute,
To the art of selling dreams without ever leaving the stall.

When the crowd disperses, the echo lingers—
A murmur of wonder, a whisper of doubt,
The spiel fades, but the taste remains,
Like scone crumbs on a Sunday teatime,
Sweet, a little stubborn, and utterly British.