Waiting for Old Smoothy (for two old Keswickians who supped on Jennings beer in the infamous poet's pub: George Hotel)

 

Crackled faces, crooked smiles, in little boyish ways.

Cackled laughter, alongside playground rules,

with the want of F words and the rickety squeaking stools.

Eyes all stained in scheme, causing wood to shudder,

in the coin cracked beams.

Their fingers pint high to heavens above,

sometimes more than two.

 

'Tomorrow never comes' they both say,

but they'll always wait for old smoothy,

and see the foamy pour, in its fine top white hat,

And a taste like 'well' and a taste like -'that'.

No matter when times are down

and prices up and cold spillage hits the floor.

Both worn in age but never broken.

With a shaking of their head in unison, a cough and a groan,

it's only on those rain spent days,

when a horse maybe fell at the final fence,

that they start their mour'ning.