I like Dr. Seuss. I like the pub. I have combined these likes into a poem. A poem about the pub, in the style of the master.
Down At The Pub: A Seussian Tale
One day, one strange day
Not so long ago or far away
I woke up that day and was all alone
My wife had gone and left me at home
“I’m going away,” said she with a sigh
And when I asked the reason why
“I need some space, to think things through,
and decide if I want to stay married to you.”
And along came her dad drove her away
with a disapproving look and not even a ‘hey’
But sometimes life just rolls that way,
At home, alone, for a whole day?
Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
There was plenty of things that I could do
The list of ideas just grew and grew
I won’t sit and merely mourn
Or let her see me all forlorn
I’ll learn to play a big French horn
Search the Net for girl-on-horse porn
I will drunk dial an ex-girlfriend or three
and ask why the broke up with me
Then call them bitches, hang up and pout
This is what being alone is about!
I ran to the laptop, Kleenex in hand,
When my phone started ringing from the nightstand
It was my friend, my friend Brit Number One
“Alright, mate? Want to have some fun?”
I told him my plight, and he took the piss
Which hurt me inside, but that’s how it is.
“You don’t need a wife,” said Brit Number One
“I’ll take you out and we’ll have cracking fun.”
What will we do? Where will we go?
“Don’t worry, mate, I’ll let you know,
But first I’ve got one thing to do,
I’ve got to ring Brit Number Two.”
They showed up straight away,
did Brit One and Brit Two
They showed up straight away
to help me get through
I offered them tea, they just stared at me
And it wasn’t a look that was very friendly
“Tea?” cried Brit Two, with his big red puffy face
“At time of day, tea would be quite a waste.”
Then what is your plan, I asked quite confused
The Pub! They cried, overly enthused
“It’s a brilliant place, mate, yes, the pub is a place,
A place, you see, where you can get quite shit-faced.
A place to forget your untidy past
A place you can get really quite trashed
You can get beer that is wheaty and golden
And color televisions that are totally stolen
You can get pork rinds, sports scores,rolls with cheese,
If you’re lucky you can get one of many STD’s.
There’s no place for fun, not like the pub,
Or maybe a strip joint, or maybe a club
There’s so much fun, cried Brit One and Brit Two
So much bloody fun that is waiting for you!
And with that we dashed to the pub unsteadily
(for Brit One and Brit Two had been drinking, you see)
with a crash, and a bash,
flash with cash from my stash
we arrived there quite fast,
“At last!” Cried Brit Two “At last.”
His eyes slightly bloodshot
“This is the pub, this is the spot!
I’ll get the round in, you get a table
And we’ll booze it up till we’re no longer able.”
We got a table, and we got some beer
And this is when it all went a little bit queer,
For we sat and we drank, and we drank and we sat
And no one said anything, and that was that.
“This is not fun,” said I to the Brit
“We’re just sitting here, this is totally shit.”
“Mate, we’ve only just begun.
This kind of fun is British fun.
It’s not like any other fun
Like in the States
with your handgun.
Our fun starts a little glum.
Wait till we get about six rounds in.
Only then will we start talkin.
But once we start it will never stop”, said the Brit
We’ll get louder and flail like a grand mal fit
We’ll jump up on the table and do crazy stunts
Then we’ll call the other punters cunts
And if they dare to look our way
We hit them with a bottle and that’s okay.
That is fun–British fun, yes, that’s how it’s done
Now get a round in for everyone.”
I did not like this, not one bit,
British fun was not fun like I knew it,
I sidestepped the bar and snuck out for a bit.
Outside I saw a sight, a terrible fright
I tried not to cry out with all my might
For there I encountered a Slee Bellied Slag
The Slee Bellied Slag is a terrible hag
A hag, was she, and a real ho bag.
The Slee Bellied Slag had three colors of hair
Not one of them natural and a steely stare
Her shirt far too tight, her stomach exposed
spilling over tight jeans in rows and rows
I couldn’t think of an erection
When I looked at the scars from her Ceasarean Section
Her voice bubbled out like gas from a sewer
I could barely look on, let alone do her.
She beckoned me close, and I knew I was done
“I like your accent,” she growled ‘Want a quick one?”
No, cried I, jumping back like a cat
I would not, could not, and that is that
I would not, could not, in your box
I would not, could not, with anyone’s cocks
I will not do you, not today
I will not do you, in the alley way
I do not like sex near a bar
I do not like it, Slag you are.
And I ran, ran, as fast as I can
Away from the pub I ran, I ran
I realized I didn’t want this life at all
I ran from the pub and gave my wife a call
She came home and we had a talk
We talked and talked and talked and talked
Then watched the tele and ate some food
And didn’t have sex cause she weren’t in the mood.
As I fell asleep on the couch, and she in the bed
I thought “Well I’m sober, but at least I’m well fed.”
