Long Pub Poems
Long Pub Poems. Below are the most popular long Pub by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pub poems by poem length and keyword.
didn't intend to
be in another Irish pub
but it's raining
and they're so much better
in the land of saints and scholars
where
musicians don't play for
tourists
John a school teacher
brought the fiddle that
he learned to play at
his mom's set dances
(Set dancing lessons--Mondays 7pm)
Sarah, the pretty lass
the other side of me
brought her mom
Mom's sipping Jameson because
it's the best she declares
absolutely, I concur
and clink my glass (of Powers)
with hers
sláinte
Sarah's drinking ginger beer
made right here at the Cobblestone
I bought you one she informs
you have to try it
bartender lines it up
with the two in front of me
sláinte
Sarah doesn't lie
feeling toasty
the burly man
with the gravelly voice
playing those raucous pub songs
lays down his guitar and yells
who's next
John makes his way
with Sarah and her mom following
someone points to me
you're with the ladies
come on
and they sit me down
in musicians corner
to hear an Irish girl sing a Scottish song
And I know what I will do tomorrow
When the hands are shaken and the kisses flow
Then I will disappear
hauntingly beautiful
a fiddle, a sweet soprano
and Irish eyes
Oh, but let me tell you that I love you
That I think about you all the time
Caledonia you're calling me
And now I'm going home
oh,
home
*Image of Freedom Pub
Freedom Pub
Marred fictions of emus, ostriches
dip their heads neath, were hailed
by Ancient Rome's false divination,
of individuals, whose conquest of
enshrining their implied role.
Emancipated exacters, whereto,
the subjugators of the unlearned
majority, daily context by untruths,
orientations hard-pressed, by
tainted thumbs of paperwork,
loads conveniently,
mache for obvious design.
Decaying precursors demonocracy,
aptitudes knotting promotes,
a panache promenade of quilted
quids, as characters clash with
reality quarrels, as a shoreline
of sculpted castled sands, drift to
its emptiness of their costly
noted, S.O.S.
The absence of freedom is a true
reinvention for the masses, to
rummage and further wander, its
lineage of class enumeration
liken to some zombie apocalypse,
clueless beginning.
Lo and behold, its keepers adrift,
salty surges hath rise o'er, the
fresh living waters.
2023 January 07
*HM*
Freedom Pub
~~Joe Maverick: Judged 2023 January 09
I wish I could do a pub crawl
go out and go real mad
I wish I could do a pub crawl
But it would really make me bad.
Just one sugar laden pint of ale
Would make me go a whiter shade of pale.
I wish I could do a pub crawl
It really makes me sad.
but if I do a pub crawl
it would really make me bad.
I would love to do a pub crawl
maybe for one final time
But I dare not rave, I've reached that age
Where I'm fast asleep by nine.
I wish I could do a pub crawl
it would really blow my mind.
But my sugar count is pandamount
to definately make me go blind.
I wish I could do a pub crawl
Have a laugh with all of you
I wish I could do a pub crawl
give my liver some work to do
But I cant get wired
I'm always tired
its just not a thing that I should do
I wish I could do a pub crawl
You know I really do.
but I dare not be so bold.
Ive gotten too old.
I dare not get far from my loo.
so I can't do a pub crawl
It something that I cant fix
no I cant do a pub crawl.
I guess its time to watch Netflix
CLICK!
The glass was half empty until he smashed it on the room divider
Tequila Sunrise on the wall
Shattered the pieces lay on the ground when he walked on his shards
Barefoot floored surrender
A bitter taste of guilt as he wretched his way to the bathroom sink
Unplugged mosaic of pain
The lipstick kiss lingered on the mirror but her toothbrush was gone
Message from a bottle
Staggered in defeat he stumbled on slurred words of another promise
Twisted spluttered echoes
As he rinsed his tongue with mouthwash more lies mourned his loss
Prolonged rapid suicide
It was the kindest thing she would ever do for the wasted drunkard
Tough unrequited love
17th February 2020
The guy who blames, takes nothing on board,
Here are a few things he should know,
That the world is not a “him against them”,
Instead it’s a place he can grow,
He needs to not use poor mental health,
Not use it as an excuse or a cloak,
But rather fix this in a world full of help,
Properly fix what is mentally broke,
And then to take charge of his incoming cash,
Organise his monetary wage,
Understand others money is not his to take,
That taking’s not normal, it’s strange,
And accept people don’t agree with all that he does,
From his boss, his neighbours, his mates,
Respect others houses and not trash them inside,
Not to fill up their house full of hate.
He’s a rocker, a mod, a violent young youth,
He bashes whoever he sees,
While she is a mugger when the sun disappears,
She’ll destroy, pretty much, both of your knees,
And he says he’s gay so of course he has AIDS,
Stay away, don’t infect us with “Qu##r”,
Are words uttered by small panicking towns,
The words that simple folk hear,
And the sore jaws of the world explain it away,
God’s will, a violent video game,
The music made him do it, teenagers today,
Shock jocks lead a moral crusade,
But today the distrust is against something small,
No vaccine, no drugs and no shots,
Nothing to blame so people panic buy,
Panic buying toilet paper from shops.
You are so cordially invited to
witness the drunken fool as he
tries to explain his life to
a bar stool which refuses to
answer his pleas of a
attention. Every night he
gives his chair a name and
loves it for as long as he
remember to.
Next to him we find our local
party girl whose life everyone
has entered, used, and left
never to return. Every
Thursday night she
Watches the fool try to
coax the chair to bed
Then gives him a free ride
if the night is slow.
Lately, though, they’ve
been joined by the
divorcee’ who’s trying to
pick up the bartender
so she’ll stop feeling lonely.
She sits at the end of the bar
watching as he walks back
forth serving others. If he
appears to be getting too friendly
she calls him over for a refill
and keeps him nearby.
Others fade in and out, day
to day, but the regulars
are permanent fixtures, like
the pool table light, never
to be removed until broken
or dead.
I left the pub one night in a bit of a tizzy
and saw some kind of being like a tin lizzie.
This turned out to be a polite alligator
now on probation for having eaten a waiter.
The police left it tied to a street lamp, it seemed.
It looked so kind. how its joyful face beamed.
It spoke perfect English, quoted Terence and Horace.
I was surprised to learn that its first name was Boris.
"In life,' it confided. 'whatever you do,
apologize profusely and past failures rue.
Then proclaim calmly the past to be past.
Now is the time to move on at last.'
Its sudden jerk made me lose grip of its leash ,
before attacking an old person whom it ate like a quiche.
"I just couldn't resist, so please don't tell the cops,'
it said, tears in eyes. while licking its chops.
The loss of that gentleman causes me pain.
I promise sincerely not to do that again.'
Then two irate policemen appeared on the scene.
One was fat and the other was lean.
Boris polished them off at remarkable speed.
To discourage this act no plea could succeed.
I wagged a finger to show disapproval
at such a violent and hasty removal.
'I am so sorry,' said Boris 'That's the last time
I shall ever commit such a base crime.
As I said before, it's time to move on.
The past is past. what's gone has gone.'
Who then should appear but Lord James Murray,
whom Boris devoured in rather a hurry.
'Boris,' I cried. 'That's enough. I'm perplexed.'
'In that case,' said Boris, you are the next.'
I ran like a hare for all I was worth
as never I ran from the day of my birth.
I got to my home, rushed in, locked the door.
I hid under the bedclothes, struck to the core.
What a hangover I had on the following day.
I saw no sign of Boris, I'm so glad to say.
No way, not me, this isn’t my thing,
This pub just isn’t my game,
This pub where vintage is modern as hell,
Where everyone’s beard is the same,
And the price of a lager is out of the world,
An ale costs a fortune or more,
It’s ridiculous hanging a bike from the roof,
Well, those were my thoughts before,
I tasted a stout, a bottled homebrew,
The ride grabbed onto my soul,
And I knew in a moment, behind all the flare,
I’d found my new watering hole,
So now, every day, out the back, on the couch,
Beside the fire pit by the tree,
About quarter past five, with a stout in his hand,
The bearded guy that you see will be me.
Inside pub steins stout magic spoke
‘neath genie wisps of bangle smoke
Brown cone cigars, deep chubby pipes
Aromatic spills to breach the night.
Music calls to muted songs
Rough knuckles echo Bodhrán drums.
Flute, melodeon, bouzouki*, mandolin
Penny whistles, uilleann pipes, one feisty violin.
Pied piper rhythms, pied piper beats
Bold Celtic persuasions to move proud legs and feet.
To Daver and friendship, thank you!
* Bouzouki...A stringed instrument that could stand up to the volume and intensity of fiddles, flutes, accordions, and pipes.
*uilleann pipes...Irish bagpipes...melodeon. an Irish accordian