The dying inn

A poem lamenting the degeneration of the traditional English pub

Long gone, alas, the days of yore

When, at the hamlet’s hub,

With sawdust sprinkled on the floor,

There stood the village pub.

Old ales, old mates, no frills, no fuss,

Where one phrase, loud and clear,

‘The Neath pleath dithmitheth us’

Would earn another beer.

Shove halfpenny, table skittles, darts,

Pickled eggs, pork pies,

A barmaid born to win men’s hearts

And brighten bleary eyes.

The dying inn – replaced it seems

With yuppies plying gin

In theme bars underneath false beams

Best fit for dying in!