Prop me up at the Bar

If I should die think only this of me
That there is some corner of a Geordie pub that is for ever……………

…………MINE!!!

It must have rogues and queens and some old has-beens to give the bar its flavour,
and the barman should be young, well hung and mean so my ghost can drool and savour.

The floor should be wood and marked with the blood of the last man to cross Joyce
who, if you fight (and you never should) would finish you with her voice.

The walls should be flock-flecked and the ceiling hung with a tacky chandelier
and a least one man, a country music fan, should wear a bandolier

When some young tart flaunts her wares by the bar and the old men start to drool.
Then some young guy will chat and that will be that. The old will be left looking fools.

Cards will be played with a rookie’s displayed in the glass at the back of the bar.
But when he protests that his hand was the best, they’ll look, then laugh and just stare.

In the lounge at the rear the old wives drink beer from small glasses to look more refined.
And there’s a couple of slags with leopardskin bags and a pumped up pimp, muscles defined.

When the Karaoke starts to caterwaul and the singers stand up to howl,
Then acquire me a me a drink, something that’s pink and some peanuts in a bowl.

So when I finally die, though not for a while, take my coffin across to that hole.
Prop me up in the corner, but please don’t mourn in the bar of the Metropole.

David G Fawcett.
25th August 2001.

With acknowledgements and apologies to Wilfred Owen