I’m trying to write a poem in a pub about people.
Well, the poem’s about people,
But the pub people are severe.
The kid behind me’s screaming
And the Doberman is barking
And the ugly bloke is smoking
And the beer is quite dear.

There’s a woman on a table
With shorts alarmingly short.
Well, on the seat at the table,
Coz the table’s made of glass.
Her husband looks quite wary
Coz her thighs are rather scary
And distinctly more hairy
Than even the Doberman’s arse.

The council estate Porkers
Wear leggings that are matching,
And they’re pigging pork scratchings,
Downing pints of Pride.
Their boyfriends are all brain-dead
And looking rather well-fed
And kicking in the dog’s head
For licking its backside.

I’m trying to do some writing
But writing’s quite exacting
And it’s much too distracting
With these rowdy bastards here.
I’m getting round to thinking
I should stop trying writing
And instead do more drinking
But the beer’s quite dear.