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On a road out of London, pulled up at a pub
i  heard him say the words I remember, today.
the drinking man suffers: glug, glug, glug
the drinking man loves: glug, glug, glug

taste of whiskey, craic,  all that convivial shite
he remembers, truly remembers – he’s a creature of the night
searching for the resurrection of a moment of lost content
he rumbles all the lying, of his friend
drinks a drink or two or twenty
hever scent, just say ‘plenty’

aligned with the rhythm of a 12-bar blues:
one word - booze
he’s seen his way to ol'AA,
up on the Finchley road,
but had to confess, more meaning less,

that he loved too much:
the sparkle just of laying on a load
he dances in his head too much
jives with the sun,
and after all the music
the poetry has begun