A pub Christmas.

 
Their is no smell of polish,
in the wood panelled, slightly dusty public house,
once a spit and sawdust local;
still the fire is real,
if not the ale.
 
It is a Pub Co pub,
the mince pies come in boxes,
brought by a man who claims assistance,
because his wages are so low.
 
The Christmas tree,
has been dragged from the attic,
I've seen better in the workhouse;
the punters come by car,
no locals having a jar.
 
How long can you carry on?
crying out for a jolly gaffer
and a band to replace,
the tape looped ersatz music.
 
The inner city looses pubs,
like a paupers teeth,
here in the rich hinterland,
you get school dinners,
no crackling conversation;
this hostelry could do with a dealer
and a pool table.

 
~