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
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