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

 

The Metropole Revisited.

It was a normal night in the Metropole with the Karaoke blasting in the bar.
Friends met up for a chat and a drink while they waited their chance to be a star.
Strobe lights flashed and the beat thrummed out while the beer flowed golden from the pumps.
Cigarette smoke fogged the rancid air as the ashtrays overflowed with dumps.
Then a scuffle in the corner spilled out across the room.
A chance-aimed glass smashed into flesh with a vicious clink of doom.
Drinkers spilled out into the road as bystanders fled the scene, while in the bar the blood flowed dark and drowned the happy dream.
The fight lost heart, combatants fled leaving a woman dying in the street.
A bloody head cradled in a strangers arms; a head kicked in by booted feet.
Now windswept bouquets strew the step and the Karaoke no longer plays.
Stagnant darkness glooms the bar and the fear wont go away.

David G Fawcett. 6th March 2002.