The Pub, revisited

They don't know me here, why would they?

Social-cleansing and slum-clearance have made sure of that

The old families who used to hold sway, are gone

But the poor still struggle while the rich get fat

In this city of culture

A small cohort of young men sit where I used to sit

Menacing glances from hungover eyes try to say

“Christmas, for you my friend, is cancelled”

But I am not fearful now, for I was just like them, back in the day

And I know bravado when I smell it

Back in ludicrous youth, what did we know?

Fuelled on boy's beer and hubris, we tried to impress

like rutting stags, marking our worthless little patches

Our brains in our pants, our lives in a mess

Triangulating from pub to bookie to dance-hall

And perhaps, forty years from now, those here today who survive,

will return like me, to sit again in this foetid pub booth

And feel the same way as I do now

Grateful to have outgrown the tyranny of youth

But, somewhat puzzlingly, not regretting the experience

For these drinking holes will still be required, to provide refuge

from the elders who always know better, but have only ever known worse

To sustain tender minds and feeble hearts alike

Until time itself frees them from that ancient curse,

the dead hand of conformity

So I leave now, ignoring the threatening looks and vacuous stares

Satisfied that there were no other life-choices to be made

And knowing that this form of self-abuse

Has long roots, and we should not be afraid

To await it's flowering