Ben Macnair
Look out now, here he is, again.
Third night this week,
still no better,
worn out shoes,
the same old yellow sweater.
He is 50 if he is a day,
old enough to know better,
Daddio.
The staff ask the same old questions,
the other punters put up with him.
Bless him, they say, he is of another generation.
He still thinks he is it,
but time moves on.
The woman he speaks to know his type.
The deluded, trying to hang onto his youth,
when places like this packed the high street.
He shouts over the noise,
says he remembers the time when Lee the Beer
bought the whole place a drink,
because he had just got that big job in the city.
Lee the Beer moved away, and won’t remember this place,
he won’t remember Dave, just another hanger on
when lies and bullshit held sway.
Nightclub Dave will tell you he reads Rimbaud for fun,
listens to Counting Crows,
waiting for an epiphany,
which just never comes.
