An annual transformation scene occurs upon the village green
when, on the same day every year, the ‘vans of Dobson’s Fair appear.
The showmen in their travelling homes of gleaming paint and shiny chrome
at crack of dawn, each First of May, arrive before the break of day.

They circle up their wagon train, and pray the day won’t turn to rain.
Then set about erecting rides. No time to lose - they’re ‘off’ at five.
The flat-packed Carousel can’t wait, all slotted in its travelling crates.
It’s old man Dobson’s pride and joy – he’s seen it daily, man and boy.

Acquired in his granddad’s day (and fifty years old then they say!)
Throughout its life, and powered still, by steam-fed belts and spinning wheels
(a supplementary generator, by Dobson’s Dad was added later)
Each end-of-season overhauled with fresh gloss paint and new glass balls.

And, when the first night’s underway with ‘sixties records in full play.
there’s power cables coiled like snakes and coconuts atop their stakes.
“A pound a pitch” against the shies to carry off some worthless prize.
Then, when we’ve tried the Carousel, we’ll Try our Strength to ring the bell.

The grass has turned to muddy pools, so duck-boards serve the smaller stalls –
squelching through the sodden straw, to find out ‘What the Butler Saw’
Then, after three electric nights, purveyors of such wild delights,
who’ve given us such frantic fun are packed and on the road by One’


VERSION 2


An annual transformation scene occurs upon the village green
when, on the same day every year, the ‘vans of Dobson’s Fair appear.
The showmen in their travelling homes of gleaming paint and shiny chrome
at crack of dawn, each First of May, arrive before the break of day.
They circle up their wagon train, and pray the day won’t turn to rain,
then set about erecting rides. No time to lose - they’re ‘off’ at five.
There follows a frenetic race where everybody knows their place
if they’re to get the fairground working. No breaks for tea, no room for shirking.

The flat-packed Carousel can’t wait, all slotted in its travelling crates.
It’s old man Dobson’s pride and joy – he’s seen it daily, man and boy.
Acquired in his granddad’s day (and fifty years old then they say!)
Throughout its life, and powered still, by steam-fed belts and spinning wheels
(a supplementary generator, by Dobson’s Dad was added later)
Each end-of-season overhauled with fresh gloss paint and new glass balls.
Its painted horses, nostrils flared, are fitted with real leather reins.
They rise and fall on twisted poles like giant barley sugar canes.

Young, screaming girls won’t hold the reins, but tightly grip the pole,
and ride their steeds against the strains of raucous Rock n’ Roll,
‘cos, now the first night’s underway with ‘sixties records in full play.
There’s power cables coiled like snakes and coconuts atop their stakes.
“A pound a pitch” against the shies to carry off some worthless prize.
The grass has turned to muddy pools, so duck-boards serve the smaller stalls –
squelching through the sodden straw, to find out ‘What the Butler Saw’,
Kiddies’ Lucky Dip surprises, Dart the Card, and Hoop-La prizes.

We’ve Tried our Strength to ring the bell, we’ve ridden Dobson’s Carousel,
we’ve lost our money on the stalls, we’ve peered in Fortune Teller’s Balls,
we’ve Hooked a Duck and won a fish – what more could anybody wish?
We don’t think twice about the cost while nibbling on our Candy Floss,
but know that for the next two nights, we’ll come back for the flashing lights,
the hot-dogs and the ginger beer, the short time Dobson’s Fair is here.
‘Cos, after three electric nights, purveyors of such wild delights,
who’ve given us such frantic fun are packed and on the road by One’