Why, oh why is Hay-on-Wye?

The fox-clad ladies of Hay-on-Wye
Delicately slurp bespoke pumpkin soup from jumble sale spoons.
And pay the price!
How rustic! How ‘de nos jours’!
“Akin, you know, to potage aux legumes
Eddie and I had in Roscoff when we
Motored to Lausanne this Spring.”

Little Miranda, free-range parent,
Knows the world revolves around her son
Who, in an orgy of free expression,
Wobbles our foamless cappuccinos
By his undisciplined table-top dance.

Dusty bookshops, fusty tombs
Of long-dead tomes,
The bulk of which would stand no chance
To grace our homes.
All this brings me to cry:
“Why, oh why is Hay-on-Wye?”

Simon Mayor