An Irishman abroad

A cold winters tale

Written when I should have been working, this is a wee poem I dedicated to my local pub in Antwerp, Belgium.

Obviously written by a man that has far too much time on his hands at work.
I returned from lunch and was trying to do some work when the first two
lines came into my head, so I thought I would have a wee look to see where
they would take me. Not exactly high brow stuff, but the sentiment is there
just the same. See you tonight - nice and early to catch up on all the
holiday stories...

Twas a dark, cold and frosty January night,
There was a nip in the air and it really did bite.
Not a cloud in the sky, nothing but stars,
The big wise old moon and planets like Mars.

The air it was silent, not a noise to be heard,
No sign of life, but still no need to be scared.
As our hero shuffles his way through this scene,
He mumbles and mutters - "Where's that fucking shebeen?!"

On further he travels, continuing his quest,
For a quiet place of refuge, somewhere to rest.
The end to another tough day in lifes cruel journey,
And he is tired, frustrated and more than a wee bit thirsty

Up ahead in the distance, he saw a shimmering light
Sounds like a song - I could be wrong, I could be right.
Drawing near to the source of this inviting warm glow,
He hears voices and music in this haven from the snow.

As he reaches his destination and peers through the glass
"Who the hell are all these drunken bastards?!" to himself he does ask
A sign reads "Welcome traveller, be ye saint, scholar or sinner"
For ye have reached the friendly place known as "The Dubliner"

"A saint I am not, nor a scholar have I ever been,
But if it's sinning you want - I think I know what you mean!"
In through the door, into the lovely warm glow
Engulfed by the crowd, by the friends he does know.

Beer follows beer, as they always seem to
(Along with an IRISH whiskey or two)
Time, as they say, does fly when you're having fun,
But not when you're downing "Rocky Mountain Bear Fuckers" in one!

With the alcohol flowing, the tongues start to waggle
As the romantic people, for snogs they do haggle.
Temperatures soar as bodies against bodies start to rub,
The crowd shouts out - "There's a lotta love in this pub!"

'Tis often said that singing lightens the soul,
Everyone here has souls made of warm glowing coal.
The tunes they are played and the songs they are sang
A wonderful time for all, the night goes with a bang.

The night draws to an end, as we all knew it would
And although we don't want to leave, we probably should.
Is there a happy ending to this wee tale of mine?
Of course there is - same time tomorrow - meet you at nine!!

JB