I lined up the black,

With a steady hand, and tight aim,

on the green baize battlefield

of the working man's game.

But as I leaned in

my cue sharp and true

me sandwich slid out me coat pocket...

straight through.

 

See, the pockets on tables

swallow reds by design.

But the holes in me trousers

swallow change, every time.

Lost a fiver last Friday

gone without trace,

like a bad safety shot

off the cushion, misplaced.

 

The table in t'kitchen

was stained with brown sauce,

from the butty I dropped

before playing, of course.

Bit of pickle on the pink,

bit o' crumbs on the blue

try explaining that one

to the old snooker crew.

 

There’s six pockets on the table,

but mine got eight if you count

the two in me coat

where loose coins dismount.

I bank shots and break,

I chalk up and pray

but my life’s full o’ pockets

where stuff fades away.

 

So here's to the baize,

and to tables and tea,

and to patching up pockets

like I patch up me knee.

I’ll pot the long black,

then grab toast on the side

on the table where breakfast

and billiards collide.