Early doors paraffins, the usual thing.

Locals lower gaze

as old John shuffles in

with his arthritic hip, 

dribble down his chin.

He drops half a crown

in the Marie Curie tin,

decimal coinage never got to him

and he sups electric bitter


The landlord looks grim,

needs an ego trim,

thinks he's charismatic

but he's just plain dim.

Puts 10p on the bitter,

waters down the gin.

Used to be youthful,

used to be slim,

has no kind bone in his body


Fat Phil cracks a joke

about those of other kin,

claims he's not racist,

excuses growing thin,

best bloke in the world 

if you've got the right skin.

Log fire's burned out,

the nights drawing in,

watch out in the ginnel for migrants.






Sent from Yahoo Mail for iPhone

◄ All of our Fathers are dead


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