It’s a heavy happy hour at the Bar That Time Forgot.
Stale pale ale watered weak but cheap, so drink a lot.
People plastered perch in packs, everyone knows your name.
Puns picked from a dusty deck, punchlines stay the same.
The jukebox in the corner croons, sings the same damn tune,
about some stinking river running under a magical moon.
It’s a horny happy hour and the pickings’re pretty slim.
So he’ll head home with her and she’ll head home with him.
Left long enough each everyone will have had each other.
He said he had his sister but he has also had her brother.
Waitress takes my order, with wink says she’ll serve me later,
the malt mists my mind, unsure whether to love or hate her.
It’s a hateful happy hour as the tempers start to fray.
Why the hell did I come here and what is making me stay?
Soon fists will be flying, blood & glass to end the night.
What’s a happy hour without a delightful little fight?
Perhaps I’ll try to hide, think I may be allergic to pain.
When I’m sane & sober, swear I’ll never drink here again.
Copyright © 2016 Philip Craddock. All rights reserved.