Thank God these beers are 9 percent

for when you feel the need to vent

while weaker men accept their place

and wonder why they showed their face.

 

I sip and wait for time to pass

amidst the sound of breaking glass,

while staring hopelessly at yeast –

The one thing here that’s grown, at least.

 

“This writing stuff’s all well and good

“but is it going to give you food?”/

“It’s food for thought on nights like this”

I mutter as I take a piss.

 

Then back down by the quiz machine

the inquisition reconvenes.

A few more ales fall from the cask;

the fuel you need to take to task.

 

The bar bell rings to save some pride;

in silence we retreat outside.

But when Mum asks what’s wrong with me

what d’you think my line should be?