The local. (Making beds and lying in them.)

 
All the old spit and sawdust boozers,
are gone,
no poor interesting drinkers,
that would talk about there tour over Germany,
with high explosives,
made the day seem shorter,
kissed the landlords daughter.
 
The Havelock in Alum Rock,
a fine early Victorian pub,
burnt down,
was the key building in the street,
then it was demolished
and left a pile of bricks,
to a century or more.
 
Take your cap of,
so the video can see you,
as if you're going to steal the non existent pressed aluminium ashtray.
 
What happened to the smelly bog,
with a hole in the roof
and fag ends by the back door?
there was a time when you could smoke a spliff
and no one would notice.
 
The pub chain moved in,
kicked out the characters,
put old woodbine adverts on the wall,
no one talks to each other;
you can't score or play American pool.
 
The old Mrs has gone to the brewery in the sky
and Tracy Emin,
has cast a gold statue,
of the small flaccid dick of a Tory lord,
just stoned and bored.
 
The bevelled window glass is spotless
and the miss matched carpentry,
shines with a coat of whitewash
and dull varnish.
 
I get my fix of love,
in the soft porn cinema
where an old lady mops up the joy,
with a warn out mop.
 
The atmospheric clock on the wall
is stuck at twenty past ten,
the street cleaner looks at his watch
and the poor are sticking their crowns back,
with super glue from the pound shop.
 
~