‘We’re start the bidding at twenty,’ he said

Raising the gavel in line with his head

His voice was posh, his delivery fast

His stare was stern, his knowledge vast

‘Ladies and Gents, the first item today

This exquisite eighteenth century tray

Antique George 11 Silver Salver made

In 1735 and what we call in the trade

The top of the heap, la creme de la cream

The star on the tree, the auctioneers dream

A charming piece in circular form

Raised -scrolled- hoof -feet , it ain’t the norm

Allow your eyes to feast on the border

Moulded by a craftsman, made to king’s order

Imagine the elegance as the butler served tea

To visiting Germans from uber das sea

Forty I’m bid from the chap at the back

Wait , sixty at least or I’ll get the sack

Look how it glistens, and shouts historical charm

Eighty she says , I’m not twisting your arm

Eighty in the room, can we go a tad more

It’s worth more than that, who’ll go eighty-four

Thank you, madam, your taste is sublime

Any more offers, anything online?’

Crash smacked the gravel. ‘Sold’ he cried out,

‘To the lady over there with a face like a trout

“Eighty-four pence, wow what a deal”

Unable to hide her inexorable zeal

‘S’not pence, madam, nor hundreds nor tens

It’s thousands, thousands that you need to spends

“I ain’t got that money, This is a farce

So you shove your Salver up your Auctioneers arse”

Michael. 2022