Donkeys in the same field, as,
They’ll eat all the grass.
We have plenty of donkeys,
But we’re running out of grass.
Peaceful Pre-match Pub Poem #1
The sun glints off the arse of a
Tennants tin in the scruff of the
car park. The weed of expectation
pokes it’s head through crack of the
day, as The Eagle and Tun in the
city of Brum, takes us in before noon.
Our six-foot host’s FA cup-coloured
whiskers, point “The Only Way is Up” –
No. 1 in the charts, last time these
snooper’s walls were licked by paint,
not darts. Perfect peaceful empty pub,
pints down, pool elbows sharp,
before the swall of a John Martin
painting, this more a John Martin
song, spot-on for the mood.
The blackboard boasts:
and 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 the reggae version.
There’s time and space to contemplate,
there’s bleachy pristine bogs,
some may say this part of town, has
gone all to the dogs, but here I find a
proper peace, on a blue-nose
blue-collar patch. The sunny, nervous,
half-cut hour, shame we spoiled it
by going to the match.