Waiting (to be served at the bar)
I pushed my way through the throng to the bar, my ears
assailed by drink-induced sound.
I’d put off it off as long as I could – but it was my
turn to get in the next round.
Two lagers, two beers and a Guinness: I knew that this
wouldn’t be cheap,
But when I’d found my way to the target, I saw that they
were standing three deep.
I waited, I wheedled and I pushed, I wormed my way
through with a grunt.
Finally I crawled under their legs, and eventually came
up at the front.
They were all shouting and yelling: everyone was giving
it a try,
Waving their fivers and their tenners, trying to catch
the barmaid’s lazy eye.
She moved with the speed of a retarded sloth on Mogadon,
or a backward old tortoise.
Unimpressed by the frenzy of punters, as if life itself
held little purpose.
She took several passes, to find the right glasses, to
serve out pale ale or strong cider.
She poured gin-and-tonic, in a state catatonic, and for
beer, needed an old dog to guide her.
Some ice and a slice were beyond her: optics, mixers and
bottles bemused her,
She couldn’t add up for toffee, and the till completely
confused her.
All around me were desperate people, yet from serving
them quickly she shrunk.
With service at this glacial speed, there wasn’t a chance
of getting near drunk.
Empires rose and fell, and Hell froze over in the time it
took to serve out one cocktail,
And the period to complete one round was measured on the
geological scale.
Nothing seemed to sir this girl up: she was the world’s
slowest barmaid:
By the time she served the guy next to me, he’d lately
died and his body decayed.
But I hung on in there, pinned up at the front, trying to
catch her with a nod and a wink.
I might be several years older now, but I was determined
to get me a drink.
Galaxies formed, and faded away, and the Universe fell in
disorder,
Till she, at last, asked me what I wanted and, finally,
it was my turn to order.
But time had moved on, my memory gone - I must have
looked like a proper chump -
I’d forgotten the drinks that I’d come for, and on the
bar, my head I started to thump.
I racked my brains for some answers, but there were only
“ifs” and “ands” and “buts”,
And that’s why we’re all drinking crème de menthe, to
wash down our pork scratchings and nuts.
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