Holmes Minor

It’s been here since the Romans first arrived
or so the plaque nailed to the wall proclaims.
No membership required, real or contrived,
to play in these fine watering hole games.

A draught of beer or cider can be drawn
and doled and drunk, a pow’rful thirst to slake
The tavern roof’s held up by four walls’ brawn,
no nibbles served, no vittles to partake.

Belly up to the bar, no need to sit
at table. Polished wood and polished brass
await the pilgrim, armchair bard, and git,
as does a barkeep’s pour as smooth as glass.

There are a few eels well into their cups;
a rattle of tipsy snakes throwing dice.
The game is on for a pack of young pups,
who’re swapping taunts with a nest of old mice.

There’s a mynah bird reciting some Keats
while the iguanas do nothing but stare.
There’s a blind badger recounting bold feats
like that one time he and pa slew the bear.

We sip our gin and juice like all the rest
and watch the tarantulas throwing darts.
We all laugh hard at a good-natured jest
and singalong with all lungs and all hearts.

No one’s allowed to snicker, and no one’s allowed to shun,
‘Cause when the sign o’er the house says ‘public’ that means everyone!