The Coronet
About a pub in London one of my friends used to work in, the regulars quietly drinking themselves to death, but also a metaphor for what we all do I guess, watching the world pass by whilst living in our routines.
The Coronet belongs to the following groups:
All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical, Everyday Life, Something To Say and West Midlands UKNothing ever changes. The faces line up at the bar
Aligned like the stars on a clear night, night after night
Folks so regular the empty glass speaks after the first drink
The grunt of ageing men using rhyming slang and broken English.
Nothing ever changes. The cold black stench of death
Wanders in from the streets to pick up his latest companion
The faces turn momentarily, a blank stare, a tip of the cap
Before ordering a chaser to avenge another man’s death
Nothing ever changes. The anecdotes repeat in due time
Talking of grand ideas and schemes they had in their heyday
The liars parade their charm and wit to a pretty girl of 18
Who nod and smile as the drinks are bought, such deviant callous ways
Nothing ever changes. The barmaid’s wait on the evening compliments
The extra drink to be had after closing time,
To sit and reflect on the day’s events
The smiles are out as the skies turns from blue to red and red to black
Another day descends and the bell rings clearly, time, gentlemen please.
But nothing ever changes. The sombre morning line-up consists of
The same few faces ploughing their pensions into this business
And the cold black stench of death heads for the street
And they all tip their caps.
In the knowledge that one day, it will be their turn to leave with him.
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