Paws on The Crown

They are clean and cut
Down The Crown.
With armfuls of screamers, rock
These session IPA-ers flock.
They’ve already,
Fennelled the way indoors,
This buttoned up bunting,
Foreshown finery parade,
Of the early doors
Parent baby club brigade.
Yawnsome holiday catch-ups, ‘neath
Saffroned catch-of-the-day adverts
Where winking Edwardian ladies
Are in the bogs
Where blinking unordinary buggies
Are in the way,
On the way to the bogs.
This time of day,
This place,
Far from wise,
As over my solo
One and only
In this place,
I over extortionise.