Ask not for whom that bell doth toll
as wordy barmaids eyes do roll.
A landlord with an earnest shout
calls time on drinks and ushers out.

The dutiful sup up and leave,
but he has a last card up his sleeve.
With feet like land locked deep-sea diver,
shuffles barward with a fiver.

He begs at last for just one more,
and one yourself,
just make it right.

He promises to drink it quick,
yet deep down knows he’s feeling sick.
Not from stout or bags of scratchings,
more from questions booze keeps asking.

What happen to the happy me?
I think – no, hang on- need to pee.

In the bog, the poet sways,
poised to ponder fonder days.
Before the time of cheap, warm cider,
eyes of wonder opening wider.

Now they narrow, tired of fun,
as fart turns wet and burns the bum.
Yet rare, a smile pops in his head,
till urine runs down inside leg,
and thus the landlord shows him out,
the child inside is crying out:

“I was not meant for such sweet sorrow”
but opts instead for “see ya tomorrow”.

Thou stout salt sick-stained feckless soul is what for, not whom,
that bell did toll.

/Johnny Vegas