Quick poem written from memory bout the first time I ever went in Yates’s…

 

Over 4 Quid for a Watered-down Carlsberg

 

Hungover.

Hair of the dog.

Needed a beer. Somewhere close.

Anywhere.

 

This place is fucking infested with plastic people.

 

Some bland Maroon 5 track

up at full

notch

can barely hear myself think.

 

Need to finish this drink and quick.

 

Stinks of cheap perfume.

 

Load of football knobheads just came in.
Dying for a piss;
and the bogs are all the way upstairs.

 

VERSE

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