Down the pub

It’s the place of breakfast and of beer

Shaded

Darkly lit

A cold pint and hot food

Drizzling ice cold glass

Hot sausage beans and eggs

A hubbub of conversation

A place where every man

Under forty five is a lad

Where standing at the bar

There is vague chanting

Laughing and good cheer

At scattered tables under carpet deep

Sit those who have the right

To be called men with half drawn pints

Grey hair and nodding winks

Sitting watching life go by

Whilst women flit between tables

Like serving wenches of old

With pints of this and plates of that

 

Its Saturday

It’s eleven A.M

And this is what they do

The sharp, the not so subtle and the dry

Joking, jostling, shoving and poking

Slapping each other on the back

Congratulating one another

On making it here

To this place of ladish rest

 

For the uninitiated

The place of boys and of men

The place where old mates

 Share old stories

Where everybody has a lot

To say but nothing new to tell

 

Builders, bullshitters

And fans of local clubs

Ask, where were you

What did you do last night?

Time for one more

Before going back out there

Into the day

Into the bright and startling light

 

Then leaving behind the place

Of brief and boyish delight

Either to the match or

Forsworn to return

To her indoors

Just outside of Morrison’s

In one piece

Not to worn and

And not too late