The sun glints off the arse
Of a rusty Tennants tin
In the scruff of the car park.
Through the murky window we see
The weed of expectation
Poke it’s head through the crack of the day.
The Eagle and Ton in the city of Brum,
Takes us in before noon.
Our be-turbaned six foot host,
With FA cup coloured whiskers,
Which point “The only way is up”,
Which was in the charts,
Last time it's insides
Were licked by paint, not darts.
Perfect peaceful empty pub,
Before the swall
Of a John Martin painting,
This is more of a whistful
A John Martin Song.
Perfect for this mood.
The blackboard boasts:
Then strangely, also “Food”.
The scent is an ale and Bombay mix,
The carpets nod to Persian,
The jukebox plays any song you want,
As long as it's t’ reggae version.
A magic sight this time of day,
The bleachy pristine bogs.
Others may say this part of town
Has fully gone t’ dogs,
But here I find the greatest peace,
On Blue-nose blue-collar patch.
The sunny nervous half-cut hour,
Shame we spoilt it by going t’ match.