Sipping a pint in the Crown and Mitre,
admiring in ignorance the naval sculpture.
Drinking myself to death and eves-dropping on audacious banter,
Tasting the ales of heavens' nectar.
The rustic chairs and gruesome glares,
The antique beams and seedy stares.
The beaten regulars and fresh-faced newbies
The hair of the dog and nearly Nazis and drunk again on a Tuesday morning.