Bulging barrels, beer on tap,
Outside the pub; a thunder clap,
Carpet soaked and trodden damp,
By tripping, dripping drunkard stamp,
Buttocks perched on backless stools,
Stories spun in endless spools,
And Marvin Got The Blues Malone,
Sipped his larger and sat alone,

What happened next you’ll credit not,
But Marvin hadn’t drunk a lot,
It’s not one of those tipsy tales,
From folk you take their drink in pails,
But God’s own truth- an honest sight,
Forthwith of what went on that night,

A dankness drifted from the door,
A stench that bore in every pore,
And boys out boozing on the binge,
Shuddered as the screeching hinge,
Swung wide to let precipitation piss,
Through the pubs front orifice,
Then bursting in upon the scene,
Stinking like a hot latrine,
Garbed in a suit of muted blue,
Crinkled skin with a yellowish hew,
Grease waved hair and dagger teeth,
The fatty frame of Johnny Keith,
He materialised with the hum of flies,
And a crazed expression in his eyes,
He quickly scanned his field of view,
And snatched a nearby snooker queue,
Knocked back a glass of single malt
Then used the stick to help him vault,

His feet shot up, his spine bent back,
Bar maids cooed and jaws went slack,
And with a proud and loud ‘ta-da!’,
He landed soundly on the bar,

The cleaning Lady dropped her hoover,
At the sight of such a deft manoeuvre,
All at once the chatter mellowed,
And they listened as the fellow bellowed,
‘Now here’s good news, retract your grief,
‘I’m in the flesh, it’s Johnny Keith!’

(Last time they’d seen this chump’s fat head,
He was in the ground and soundly dead)
So shock and horror both abounded,
Chatty folk became dumbfounded,
One bloke collapsed, another fainted,
A woman cried ‘you should be sainted!’
Another man, we’ll call him Innis,
Simply screamed and dropped is Guinness,

Yet Marvin; unmoved as a stuffed cockatoo,
Even as the commotion grew,
He sat as stiff as an unsmoked spliff,
Expression of a hieroglyph,
‘What’s up with you?’ John demanded,
As his undead chest expanded,
‘My deal with death was firmly clinched,
‘And you haven’t even flinched,
‘When I speak to you post my death,
‘Formaldehyde still on my breath,
‘In a pub that could not even quench,
‘The muddy stench of my funeral trench,
‘Of earth were I was laid to rest,
‘Earth that Fr Mitchell blessed,
‘And watered so the flowers would grow,
‘Above my body a week ago,
‘But you’re unfazed, you’re not amazed,
‘If anything your eyes look glazed,
‘So what’s the deal, or did you know I’d heal,
‘From my fatal case of gone off veal?!’

The truth was Marvin Malone wasn’t thrown,
Nor had he a joyous tear to shed,
Because Marvin Malone hadn’t even known,
That Johnny Keith was dead,
And when news of death then life is not successive,
Resurrection is less impressive.



About Gwen and Elinor

Two bloging buddies who love tea and biscuits.
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