Pubs have grown strange. No longer are you able
To jostle at the bar, but are directed
Towards a lonely disinfected table
Where gloved hands bring the drinks that you’ve selected.
The bar staff gamely take to new-learned tasks
Some bossily, but others with more tact.
It’s disconcerting seeing them wear masks;
You’d be put off, except for one sweet fact…
There is no music! The loud thumping rock
That’s been the soundtrack to our evenings out
Has been switched off, because high-decibel schlock
Makes drinkers shout, and so spread germs about.
No racket now will murder conversations –
Even this virus has its compensations.
July 7, 2020 at 5:11 pm
Well said, George!…and I love the word ‘disinfected’ in a poem..never seen it before…
July 7, 2020 at 7:36 pm
What a quality piece this is. Well-written; on point; droll; metrically-flowing; immaculately-rhymed; and leading effortlessly to a logical conclusion.
Applause.