The drink was a saviour at the time,
the pub a womb where we had some
form of political asylum or diplomatic
immunity from daylight, which we
were hiding from, in the foetal position
at the counter of some bar or other.

The dispenser was our umbilical
chord, our intervenes drip, the ******
of our sustenance. All the better if it
was a female serving us, we were
suckling calves at the trough where
the udders had different brand names.

Guinness was meant to be good for
you, so we believed the marketing
as we drank black nectar from under
the frothy foam that remained all the
way to the bottom of the glass, ring
marking the sides at every pause
just as a growth circle in an oak tree.

And then, came that final gulp when
the mousse bonus was lowered into the
neck as we looked to the ceiling at the
suspended glue fly catchers with a
smoky background resembling our lungs.

We always answered yes to the question
but not only that, we did in perfect harmony.