In a cosy pub, away from your mother
With your mates, light ale, or the new mixture
Of lager and ice cold Irish cider; you say
You won't stay long, before you get on home
To the television and the chatter
Yes, the natter of what you did with your day
Not that it matters, unless of course
You've confounded everyone and got a job
Or once again picked up the calendar
With artwork by Vermeer, or passed the scent
Of lilies in bloom, or explained how to develop
The recipe of sauce for Beef Wellington
And if you do hear us say, without thought… if only
