This is the tale that seldom gets told
But remains as a legend to us all getting old.
Its subject is rooted in seedy old bars
And con-men who waved from their ill-gotten cars.
So many people, their age-range diverse,
Some crawled in nappies, as older ones cursed.
Drink was a cure, whilst others would smoke,
Some were addicted, and most were stone broke.
At times there was fighting, to see who would bend,
The women now sloshed, piled in at the end.
At some point the crack and the laughter would cool,
The drink had been drunk on the last game of pool.
The Drug squad was always out and aware,
Sat down at your table with neatly cut hair.
Some senior men would talk about ‘wacky’
Surrounded by fumes from the custom-made ‘baccy.
Alongside, the police on a regular basis
Would scan every niche in a quest for new faces.
Even now, when the years have long taken flight
Somewhere there’s a copper with you in his sight.
We know about good and bad in a sector
And a bitter old cop who missed out on Inspector.
Reflecting is risky, in hindsight you see
You know what you wanted and what you could be.
But this is that tale of memories old
A brief trip with me along the same road.
Those people who left their one-room divider,
To traipse through the town begging money for cider.
Not far behind, the late-comers plea
From those who were seeking their own entrance fee.
However you feel, however you view it,
Remember all those who didn’t come through it.
For better or worse if you’re standing today,
Salute absent friends in a time-honoured way.