Poetry corner, and coughing and spluttering

I met with an old boy in my local,
He was looking downheareted and glum.
"I'll buy you a pint, tom" I offered
"if you'll give us a smile, my old chum".

"Taint the beer that's makin' me mournful" he said,
"it's this new fangled law"
I can sup all the ale I've a mind to.
But I can't smoke me pipe anymore."

"For sixty odd years I have drunk here,
exceptin' of course for the war.
Now they've the cheek to inform me,
I can't smoke me pipe anymore."

"Is this their land fit for 'eros,
The freedom that we struggled for,
When they bans the last of me pleasures.
And I can't smoke me pipe any more."

The trendy young barman who served me,
as I went to the bar for my beer,
said "I'm sick and tired of him moaning.
It's time he was gone out of here."

"Oi you, you owd bugger" he shouted,
"I've told you enough times before.
"We're healthier now than in your day,
and you can't smoke your pipe anymore."

"In fact, it's time you were leaving.
We don't need your sort anymore.
Your day is done, it's time you were gone.
And on your way out, close the door."

Old Tom, he passed on not long after.
He's entered those bright pearly gates.
He's having a pint with St Peter,
and a mardle with all his old mates.

He is where there's no persecution,
or insults from ignorant tykes.
Where the publican never calls closing.
And he's smoking as much as he loikes.

(not mine, nicked it from Arthur Fox (2008))

Well, is this a small return of the lurgy? Feel rotten, my decision to take a day off seems well planned. Getting housework done ("can you hear the laundry spin"), cleaning and binning stuff; can't get my airband to talk to the computer which is a bit of a bugger, and the software's just eaten all my afternoon's programming but I can live with that. Through the power of fuckup, my trip south is kyboshed until the morning. There may be beer in them their hills. But it'll have to wait.

Arse!