Saturday evening, it's early, so early,
before all the bright young things come out to play;
5.30 down in the pub by the bus station,
paintwork is peeling, it's seen better days.

Up by the juke box a man in a faded
old jacket stands baffled, a coin in his hand.
Names flash before him in gaudy confusion,
he can't find The Searchers, his favourite band.

Three women gossip and shriek by the window
where pale light illuminates glasses of gin;
Elsie's a pensioner, Maureen's a widow,
and Dot buys a round from her last bandit win.

Up at the bar big fat Ronnie's demanding
they switch on the TV t o see if he's won;
Got a hot tip and he stuck on a tenner,
he'd better not tell her indoors what he's done!

Smell of stale ***** permeates from old Billy,
he's been drinking Guinness since quarter to three;
last night he was nicked by the cops on his way home
for taking a leak underneath a park tree.

All human life is arrayed in the bar room,
it's where people come when they've nowhere to go;
seeking companionship, happy the hour,
when somebody talks to them that they don't know.