SATURDAY NIGHT IN THE BAR-ROOM
by
Ed Pickford

It was Saturday night in the bar-room
And the usual crowd was there
The bloke who cheats at the dominoes
And the landlord with re-moveable hair

Then out of a night so snowy
Stepped a tramp - humbly within
His face was lined with rough living
And his whiskers were soaked with rough gin

He ordered a half of strong bitter
And he gazed at the joy all around
Then he made a wide arc with his left arm
And it was then that he uttered this sound.

He said, 'Give me order I beg you,
And I'll tell you a bit of a tale
It'll only take a few minutes
And I promise your beer won't go stale.'

'Get out!' said the hard-faced bartender
'We won't have no stories in here
We don't get no profit from stories
And it's hard enough selling this beer.'

'You heard the bartender,' said a tallish young man
You're making this place look a mess
For I am a plain clothes policeman
Disguised in these boots and this dress.

'What's the trouble?' said the pub's drunken manager
In his lips was a strong cigarette
You'll be one of them longhaired guitarist
From the Salvation Army I expect'.

'No it's not!' said a white-haired old lady
'It's just an old man with a tale.'
'Then send him back to the dogs' home.'
Said Geordie whilst supping his ale.

Then Joe who was playing the piano
For just £1.50 a night
Thought to placate the whole company
With a tune that was merry and light

'Stop that playing!' screamed Big Geordie
Who was standing there bad with the beer
And he gave him a swipe to ease his own gripe
And he ended a brilliant career.

Then Sticky MacFadgen - for that was his name
Went berserk when he saw Cousin Joe
And though six stone wet through, he grabbed bottles two
And swore that he'd soon have a go.

But nine bottles of ' broon' had ruined his aim
And he missed drunken Geordie by yards
All that he did was to cripple poor Sid
Who was just sitting there - playing cards.

Then Sid's wife made a grab for her handbag
And from it she drew forth a knife
She made a quick stab at MacFadgen
And she ruined the poor man's sex life.

This caused a row and a ruction
For MacFadgen was a popular lad
And besides that he played for the darts team
And he was the best bloody player they had.

The battle commenced then in earnest
Each one took sides in the fight
Except for the manager's pet budgie
Who bombed everybody in sight!

Then in rushed a bus trip from Sunderland
They were bound for the French Eiffel Tower
They were weary of travel and gagging for drink
Because they'd been on the bus for an hour.

At the head of the crew was a lady called Lou
Who was renowned for her skill with a whip
From 25 yards she could cut packs of cards
And have a pretty good try at your zip

This ungallant crew had swallowed a few
And one was heard to relate
'By!... this is the way to spend Saturday night
Culture and Paris can wait!'

The wounded lay moaning and groaning
Some asked to be given last rites
Even the poor budgie was wounded
Struck by a dart in mid-flight.

One man alone was left standing
It was the tramp with the gin soaked old face
Who finished his drink at the double
And went in search of a quieter place.
The end