We know those little country pubs,
By cross-road and by creek,
Where faithfully the landlord scrubs
His counter once a week,
And stands before his shining bar
To cater for man’s thirst
With all the best; but where the meals are
He caters with the worst.
“Wottle you ‘ave?” There’s beer or brandy,
Rum or half-and-half or shandy.
Wine or whisky. Bottles wink —
“Wottle you ‘ave, boys? Name your drink” …
But in the grimy dining room
A slattern lass of grease and gloom
Intones in accents charged with grief:
“Wottle you ‘ave? There’s corn-beef.”
In the bar the talk grows gay,
The landlord beams, for trade agog,
And yokels wile dull hours away
Idly yarning o’er their grog …
But in that cave of gastric woes
Grimly the hungry traveller eats,
To end by turning up his nose
And hoping to fill up on sweets.
“Wottle you ‘ave?” — The cups are cloudy.
Linen soiled. The waitress dowdy,
Comes like an avenging fate
Snatching at the greasy plate —
Soggy cabbage; soapy “spuds” —
Droning flies and smell of suds.
Now she whines, like some lost soul:
“Wottle you ‘ave? There’s jam-roll.”
(C J Dennis)
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Based on Topics: Soul Poems, Name Poems, Grief Poems, Wine PoemsBased on Keywords: droning, whines, scrubs, slattern, suds, grog, pubs, dining, snatching, soggy, agog