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A FROTHBLOWER'S LAST WISH
by
David Squires

No granite stone for this old head, nor its cold and damp clay bed,
instead, dispatch me to my heaven, via local CREM at gas mark seven,
And when the job is cleanly done, box me up and take me home.
Sit awhile in quiet peace - (I'll be on the mantelpiece)
Then as the sun goes slowly down take me, a spoon, and head for town.

Up the high street - second left, then ten doors up, the 'Weaver's Weft',
A place I entered with such ease but never once heard 'Time Gents please'
remove the lid from urn I pray and spoon some into each ash-tray,
Just a little here and there- have a drink and then repair,
to the 'George' then 'Horse & Jockey' where I drank and oft got cocky-
fought the landlord, then got ill - so share me out, you know the drill.

One more drink then off you steal into the square and 'Potter's Wheel',
and once again, some here and there, amongst the Woodbines - I don't care!
Onto the 'Fox' and then the 'Lion -such comfy floors on which to lie on,
So many times I drank my fill- in bar and snug and then got ill,
They never let me in the lounge -too posh for me when on the scrounge!
So go in there and spoon me out - a touch of class on this last route!

The 'Irish House' or 'Moony's Bar' - the jolliest pub in town by far.
Here I was amongst my sort, we drank and sang and often fought.
The landlord didn't sneer or shout, he didn't even throw you out,
But laid you tidily on a sack, in the store room at the back.
So spread what's left of my remains throughout this pub and down its drains.
A long ambition when in breath, at last achieved - but after death,
My mortal body now ensconced... IN SEVEN TAVERNS - ALL AT ONCE!

 
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