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


Over 4 Quid for a Watered-down Carlsberg



Hair of the dog.

Needed a beer. Somewhere close.



This place is fucking infested with plastic people.


Some bland Maroon 5 track

up at full


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.




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