The Slipper Men
I remember the procession of the Slipper Men From the bus station to the Wetherspoon and back again. Lagging the bar in summer and winter, Enjoying a pint or more of Brains best bitter With slippers on feet and shoes in a bag Between every ale they lit up a fag, With elbows moving like pistons at work They stood or sat in clouds of acrid smoke. Shorts, cider and export strength lager When day turned to night the drinking got harder. They were snug in the pub like that man in the whale But alas there is a sad end to this tale, The smoking ban put a stop to their games – Not all new Labour achievements went down in flames.
PHIL KNIGHT
£10 INCL P&P FROM
CANEARROWPRESS.COM 13
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