"wetherspoons" poems
Through the smoke, **** and *****
A parking fine, ***** on it.
The most horrid sight, we’re used to it, right?
The capital’s disgusting and we’re ******
Lengthy ques for employment,
Assorted drugs for enjoyment,
Our bank account’s bust, believe it we’re ******
The government won’t even lend a hand.
Will it be Lidl or Aldi?
Wetherspoons, cheap and rowdy.
An overdraft to, purchase more *****
Fracking makes us hate you more, it’s true.
Unpunctual trains, privatisation.
It’s ******* cold at the station.
Elite middle class, this country’s a farce,
Don’t even get me started on the EU.
Chicken wings and pollution,
Private health care – THAT’S THE SOLUTION!
Increased licence fees, no money for tea,
Five more years of Cameron and we’re *******
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
If you've not done it then you are a liar too
The luxury of the able-bodied to have a sneaky little poo
Look left, look right, there's nobody about
A peaceful time for what's needed now
A better handwash and a cleaner surround,
from the ceiling to extractor fan
Even onto the white grout
I'm not one to judge as I'd been there before
From a night in Yates's where they want your key to sniff coke
These private, uncompromising rooms have a life of their own, with stories I will not joke
The people of most Wetherspoons have a disabled key they use on a daily basis
Nothing wrong with them all, the odd one with a genuine NHS bracelet,
I tell you now, you really do start to hate it
But it is nice to be away from the majority of the public in a life I did not choose
Occupied, red dial turned, out come a pair of girls mostly half drunk, always together as a two
That is probably why it gets me down, a daily occurrence,
it affects us all,
These,
Disabled bog blues
JJB
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
the silk won't stop you
it'll only act as a soft-to-touch glaze for a scar yet to form
and by all means fall over into pretty positions
but don't blame the alcohol.
That breezer-pint-shot-and-gill in your limp right hand
is a mask: a tied at the back ribbon to cover up your desired task of falling into the arms
of him,
or him,
or him,
or him,
or him over there.
just because drama school and it's endless auditions
didn't let you in, doesn't mean this Wetherspoons should either:
take a knee
have a breather
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
pale flowers pale proprietor pale ale
i have ordered you to the table
almost funny how quickly you arrive
and funnier
ethanol ice, roots and glasses crash in
celebration
oh branch, gnarled wood with a numbered
engraving - i send thanks
via application
payment as in a pitcher - forget
taste - order it
sugary with a bit of weight yet
you never took credit for
sake of appearances
I only entered you
knowing you wouldn’t ask as much as
the others past 5pm
to sneak out your doors by 11
into gravel’d outposts -
into the dark crying out for something
like your lost beauty.
May 13, 2024
May 13, 2024 at 7:47 AM UTC
One. I ask my Dad what day it is, again. Two. I had a nightmare that our block of flats was exploding whilst I ran away, do you think this reflects my fear of the virus, doc? Three. Chocolate porridge at 2pm, maybe its a bit late for porridge. Four. I think I accidentally chucked my propranolol tablets into the bin. Five. I take a bike ride round the village and I get intrusive thoughts about knocking over old people, on purpose, for fun. Six. I’m back to the flat and the ceiling looks like it’s lower than usual, did I grow a few inches? Seven. I can’t remember the last time I saw Emma, must have been when she cried in Wetherspoons, someone crying with you is better than no friend. Eight. My breathing turns shallow I think, I check my symptoms. Nine. I imagine dying of it and look back at my twenty-five years like a montage and get really overwhelmed and then I start to watch an old Mickey Mouse cartoon on my laptop. Ten. I just spotted a really plump pigeon outside. Eleven. Is this how hamsters feel, trapped inside with a few things to stimulate them. If so, I’m so sorry Martin (my old hamster). Twelve. The frustration sets in like thick molasses filling in the grooves of my soft brain. Thirteen. I turn to drawing and just end up sketching a huge mouth swallowing a rat. Fourteen. It’s bedtime and I settle down with a book. American ****** Patrick just killed a dog and it set me off sobbing. Fifteen. I close my eyes and wish for a better day tomorrow. Is it going to be Tuesday or Wednesday?
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 8:51 PM UTC
It was the full English breakfast with extras that did it,
Wetherspoons got rid of the evidence, but my gluttony hung like a tyre around my waist,
at last I was sated but I still wondered why I hadn't ordered some potatoes with a hot shepherds pie.
Holidays become me
and the blimp in my tummy
reminds me to go on a diet.
But it's back to earth with a bump
as I jump out of my bed
and instead of the beach
it is work
I must reach before nine.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC
What is there to do?
Late nights and late mornings, coco pops for lunch.
Mourning Wetherspoons with friends, drinks and
3am cheesy chips, laughter like clowns on steroids.
Today I cried over my laptop dying
and I can’t use Facebook on a wide screen.
I’m pining more for real faces though
and having jokes heard and my expressions seen.
The evenings mission is dinner, lining up
the vegetables like soldiers and making
food does seems that serious now.
Outside the streetlights somehow look dimmer.
But when spring hits the watts of sun will
glow like shining daffodils and we shall
bloom too and grow using fertiliser that
forms out of the depth of solitude.
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 11:16 AM UTC