Happy Hour

When I was seventeen they stopped asking me,

For ID,

My friends and I would gather at a table,

In the corner of ‘The Fisherman’s Fable’,

And drink bitter through a moustache

It had taken two weeks to grow,

And we felt like men because we were bitter drinkers.

When I was twenty the guys from the factory,

Would often join me,

At my regular place and my regular table,

In the corner of ‘The Fisherman’s Fable’,

And drink bitter while we complained

About work and the weather,

And we were men and we were bitter drinkers.

Then I was fifty and I still went there most nights,

Putting the world to rights,

Having wonderful discussions from my seat at my table,

With the owner of ‘The Fisherman’s Fable’,

And I drank bitter while we says it’s nearly time to retire

Because we are getting on in years,

Men like us who are bitter drinkers.

And now I am old and it is under new management,

From a southern gent,

Who serves cocktails and olives and removed my table,

From the corner of ‘The Fisherman’s Fable’,

So I drink bitter while the place fills up with seventeen year olds,

And nobody talks to me,

Because I am an old, bitter drinker.