Last Orders

a poem by tobias kerins, UK

Fancy a pint, go down to your local
Have a laugh with the boys and get all vocal
Watch the football on telly, or perhaps a live band
At the corner of the bar, with your best mate stand

Take a chance and play, win the bonus ball
The dart team and pool team, and of course football
The horseracing is on, you’re leading at the last
But all of this, could be a thing of the past

Pubs are closing, they’re all shutting down
Sooner or later, there’ll be none left in town
But why are they closing, have we all stopped drinking
That very question, should get you thinking

Let’s start with the landlords, the breweries I mean
The rent they charge, is totally obscene
Then the price they charge, for their barrels of beer
Compares to those, of a racketeer

Local authorities with their business tax
Another bill, and the foundation cracks
Electric and gas, not forgetting the water
The VAT at the end of each quarter

Then there are bar staff, don’t forget their wages
Sometimes you pay them, for turning pages
The reason being, there are no customers to serve
Slowly the pub, is on the downward curve

Supermarkets, equally share the blame
Economics is, a shameful game
Sell the cheapest of beer, the pubs can’t compete
The end effect, pub sales deplete

To meet bills, pubs have to raise the price
They have no choice, they know it ain’t nice
People stay away, as they cannot afford
And slowly to death, the pub falls on its sword

The saddest of times, we feel we’ve been robbed
Of a business which once, at the community throbbed
It’s time for last orders, that last pint of ale
Try to save your local, fight tooth and nail

How Not To Chat-up A Girl
The Maltese Falcon Vol III
Knowing When To Say No

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