Gone for a few beers with my friends
after nine rounds we’d mastered
one spoke of all made well and good
and one of badly plastered.
By my right ear I took it in
by the left out I let it
feeling so far out of my depth
so’s not to have abetted.
The pub reeked of some steamy brew
some high-brow slick schlock mixer
where the young sagely dipped their heads
looking postmodernixered.
Opposite some bored pondering miss
sauce-stuffed her face with relish
and with her mouth still full, opined:
on life bedevilled, hellish.
It is, young miss, or maybe not
was my reply, swift, sporty
what on earth else could she expect
from a bloke just turned forty?
I see my life in crystal terms
like a well, appositely
drawn to the pub I take the plunge
and bottoms-up down sprightly
Thirst quenched by beer, my peckishness
fine weener-wurst assuages
smoke hangs here blue, and in the loo
the literary pages.
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