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Drinking With Daddy In The Last Chance Saloon

All those years never knew what to do,
while you applied thumb screws
I stayed torniquet'd, in the stew.
One day I’ll have you helpless at last,
all things float past those who wait.
Sooner or later, I’ll shake your cold hand,
measure you top to toe.
A little less than five foot small,
shake out moth balls
from your one and only suit,
sling you on my shoulder
while you'll grow ever colder,
stiffer than a soldier on parade.
Slip inside “The Local", 
snap myself a foto,
sit down in what once was the “snug”
stoked with hot coal
but is now
some bugger all room
that no one knows
what in hells name to do with.
Slam your old tool box on the bar.
“Two jars of your best,
for me and my star of a dad." I’d lie,
then drink both down
with a tear in each eye,
smooth down your hair
not once flinching
before your glacial stare.

snug-room in a pub usually extremely small with a coal fire where elderly people met to have a drink.

jar- a pint of beer

2 Nov 11

(define the words in this poem)
(737 more poems by this author)

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wow! the debauchery of "a bugger all room".

i assume this includes bestiality?

sounds like a poetry board i know of.
 — unknown

I know next to nowt which is almost bugger all
 — larrylark

a poetry board you do not name.
 — unknown

yes, like a town without pity.
 — unknown

and a city without shame
 — unknown

Isn't it a Pitney what a town without Pitney can do
 — larrylark