Pub Gig

Smokey, Victorian roses on the embossed ceiling,

Rather quaint but dropping minute grime

On a herd of trendy listeners.

Banging me a manly glass

On the mahogany bar,

We were all dressing-gowned

And telly-watching on a Thursday

But tonight we are

Queens And Rockers On A Friday Out,

So up yours.

Long hair, plectrum ready,

This is our first number.

The dead bird on the roof

Is vibrating with a mischievous glint in his eye

To a wanton jackplug

As it violates the amplifier and makes it scream.

Blood, sweat and beers,

A hundred years of marinade.

The Boer War, the Armistice and the Ballroom Blitz

Have all dropped fluid onto the thumping floor which dances...

Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, clap.

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