Work in a British Pub
Life is shit when you look at it, each day it feels the same.
Can you tell me what it’s for, and what we have to gain.
For a minor measly wage, it cant be what we’re worth.
If not for the company, I’d rather much eat earth.
Laura looked a little tense, the stress was shining through.
Whilst Chris has clearly just gone mad, screaming ‘whoopdy doo’.
Bob was up the Miners, whilst Mandy was perplexed,
At just where Justine might have gone, (outside sending texts).
Mike had worked a ten hour stint, and was now nearly spent.
Jane finished at six o clock, drinking her twelve per cent.
Lisa outside smoking fags, so who now manned the floor.
There were three people working, maybe we needed four.
John had tried to hide his stress – with rather small success.
He tried to take it out on Dave, retorting with a jest.
Eamon finished long ago, now drinking at the bar.
Reminding us how old he was, and how he cant walk far.
To let you know the time of day, it was now half past nine.
The kitchen was now closing, a thought that was sublime .
There was no traipsing out the door, dragging out the grub,
which made our Laura smile again, we could now be a pub.
And so the beers they start to flow, the bar staff in their prime,
receiving drinks so gratefully, Chris he racked up nine.
Well maybe that’s a little lie, it was in fact just three.
Exaggeration is an art, to make a good story.
That fact is beside the point, back to the task at hand.
The tills were overflowing whilst the atmosphere was grand.
Mandy had returned upstairs, to put herself to bed,
just as Shaun-y wondered in, already off his head.
Now the time was getting on, the last orders long gone.
The patrons wanted even more, and said as much as one.
Their speech it seemed a little slurred, we barely understood,
and so we sent them on their way, to get served where they could.
© Copyright 2016 CRoberts . All rights reserved.