The Drum

There's a pub called "The Drum" where I'll often come
to sit back and soak up the chatter.
I was recently there, in a fireside chair,
with Sarah - for a pint, and a natter.
Now we were sittin' quite near, so couldn't help overhear
a large, red-faced man's conversation
with a woman who seemed (her body-language screamed)
to be far past the point of vexation.

"Do understand me, my dear!
There are some mistakes it's a pleasure to make
It's that which I wish to make clear.

Now I'm to commit a sin, I'll admit
But it's all for your sake - these measures I take
Together, we'll conquer your fear."

"God damn your eyes! You father of lies!
You mock - so unfair! As I slump in my chair
(which creaks as I rock on two legs)
My soul's yours, that is true, but the last laugh's on you:
You're a fiend, not a friend, so to hell let's descend.
We're a pair of worn-out old dregs."

"God damn me? My dear, He did long ago
for daring to let Eve eat of the fruit, so she'd know
the sole thing that differs between me and Him:
What He does is divine; what I do's a sin."

Now we didn't see them go, but - what do you know?
I turned - they were no longer there.
That they'd been there was clear from the unfinished beer
(and, now that I tell, a slight sulphurous smell)
but t'was empty, that creaky old chair.

Apologies to Pam Ayres.