Wether(spoons) or Not
To the weary traveller who turns up at night,
Through the gloom there’s beckoning light,
My hostelries are a welcoming sight.
Push past my bouncers of great height,
And after you’ve had a meal or a light bite,
You can get yourself as high as a kite,
And (in Trowbridge) involved in a fight!
Yes – come Hell or High Noon,
I’m your Mister Wetherspoon.
I’m there on every High Street,
In every town and great city,
And some occupy elegant buildings,
And others that are far less than pretty.
My floor-coverings are sticky and gritty,
And some are positively shitty,
But you don’t need much in the kitty,
To buy drinks that are cloudy and bitty,
And though our menus attempt be witty,
You’ll be served by a barmaid who’s snitty,
Or a youth who’s positively zitty -
I might employ the lowliest goon,
But I’m still your Mister Wetherspoon.
So all hail my family-friendly chain,
A calm refuge that’s out of the rain,
My all-day serving meal deals,
Where grease on the tables congeals,
My establishment for the crap-lager man,
That sells alcohol as cheap as it can,
But my lurid advertising never fails,
To offer a wide range of ciders and ales.
For the all-day drinker it’s life’s greatest boon,
To have a house named Wetherspoon.
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