A massive in-joke and a heartfealt cry of anguish.
Some years ago, I was honoured to know
A motley crew of patches,
Who after rehearsal, would sit in a circle,
Indulging in drinking matches.
We’d sit there and glug in the old Labour Club,
With Rosie and Ronnie & Panda,
And the money we spent could easily rent
A country the size of Rwanda.
The Welsh one was there, and the guy with no hair,
And Russell, asleep in the sand;
Tho’ Gromore’s laughs could shake seismographs,
And smash every glass in the land.
There were others there, that, I’ll declare,
But their names – well, I’m just not tellin’
Cos I don’t have the time, and they’re too hard to rhyme,
So let’s call them all Cunobelin.
We’d drink and we’d shout until Dave threw us out,
And I’d float home, happy and hoarse;
And when I asked them if we’d do it again,
The answer would be “But of course!”
But now…
Now it’s hard to locate just one of those mates
Who wants to get drunk when I do;
And those who drank flagons are all on the wagon –
Yes, Turner, I’m looking at you!
They’re all getting choosy ‘bout when they get boozy,
And the ‘Yes’s are turning to ‘Maybe’s.
‘Cos they’ve all got jobs, the credulous knobs,
Or worse than that – fucking babies!
But since it’s a party, I’ll be hale and hearty,
And look back with joy at those times;
And wave a “Hello” to Panda and Jo,
And give them the gift of this rhyme.
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