Paraffins
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.
