I’m sure any regular readers will know my mantra for verse – ‘If it don’t rhyme, it ain’t poetry’ – and I class this as proper poetry, somewhere between that of William Topaz McGonagall and Pam Ayres.
So without further ado … ‘Enough’.
Oh dear, I feel unsteady, and wobbly on my feet.
Thought I’d meet a nice young blonde, and save her from the street.
I ordered extra drinks from the barman over there,
I had to drink them all myself, ‘cos she don’t seem to care.
The first round wasn’t too bad, I thought that life was tough,
Now I’ve done it three more times, I feel a little rough.
‘Set ‘em up again, Joe, she’ll be here pretty soon,’
He said ‘Ya shouldn’t bother – more chance getting to the moon.’
I said I’d dressed up special, put gold links in me cuff,
He snatched away the empty glass, said, ‘Mate, you’ve had enough.’
I settled for a cola’d Coke, it fizzled in the glass.
I tripped upon the curly mat, and fell upon me arse.
‘Right! That’s it! You gotta leave, you’re a nuisance in this place.’
But as he whisked me through the bar, I saw her lovely face.
‘Oi!’ I said, as he pushed me, right out through the door,
‘You were s’posed to be with me! – I woulda loved you more!’
As I hit the footpath, I bumped in to Old Bill,
‘Accompany me to my van – or come against your will.’
I spent the night in chokey, the cell room floor was hard,
Breakfast wasn’t up to much, just toast all smeared with lard.
Straight in front the beak I went, of course he got me done,
Stung me for a pony, but I’m glad it weren’t a ton.
The moral of this story is, once in the nitty gritty,
When you get to sixty five, young blondes don’t think you’re pretty.
(c) 2016, K Patrick Moody