Image © Copyright Amy Charles Media 2014

5 Dec 2014

In Church On A Tuesday Night

With a heavy-bodied aftershave aroma,
the tap room is a church on Tuesday night.
The soundtrack might be 'Girlfriend In A Coma'
but thankfully, the jukebox doesn't play that "modern shite."
Where distant lives and distant wives and worries wait outside,
in the tap room of the Ossett Brewers Pride.

The washing up was finished before the plates were even dirty,
desert boots slipped out the door at bang on seven thirty;
in four hours time they'll be lurching home, higher than a kite,
from the tap room that's a church on Tuesday night.

The picture's swapped for teletext:
Premier League on pause.
The picks of their accumulators'
pixelated scores.
Predict the unpredictable,
pin hopes on hopeless plights;
in The Brewers Pride,
the tap room is a church on Tuesday night.

This Farmer's Blonde is far too bland.
He must be blind to make that blunder!
Thirty feckless seconds,
my accumulator's all asunder.
Allus only one team short; I'm bound to get it right,
in the tap room that's a church on Tuesday night.

The politician's cameo for fifteen flimsy minutes,
but then it's back to tactics and the black ticks that'll win it.
Four quid on at Ladbrokes sees a generous return,
in a tap room on a Tuesday where they pray, but never learn.

One more jar and then the road,
debrief with our disciples.
Statistics like a secret code,
opinions all recycled.
Never mind this Spanish flair,
they need a bit of fight!
No nonsense in the tap room,
that's a church on Tuesday night.

Soaring highs and forlorn frowns
from filthy rich to Ipswich Town,
concerned that Burnley are going down;
they'll soon be out of sight.
The centre half's a dirty sod,
the barmaid knows to only nod,
we've got football: who needs God?
In church, on a Tuesday night.

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