The Stag’s Head

The sink in the snug has gone.
I used to sit in it
When all the stools at the bar were taken.
Leg-splayed, arse-cupped,
Legless, arse-ways,
The Guinness-fuelled night
Sprouted from the lecture-skipping lunch.
Returned, it’s not the same, but is.
The ripped leather’s gone.
The nicotine stains are fading.
The staff are new.
The chips have morphed into mash.
It smells of bass and dill.
But begrudgery remains.

Rupert Moreton

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