I heard a rumour today
That yet another part
Of England’s heart
Is about to pass away.

Wilt
More flats be built
Where once there stood
A pub?

Shall beer and wine
Be replaced by the bottom line?
The drunkards now sing
But profit is king.

I see the open fire as I write
The coals all alight
And almost feel it’s blaze.
Shall profit’s craze
Erase all?

Let us raise a pint to the identikit
World into which we all must fit,
Where the suited and booted
Discuss the bottom line
While sipping their overpriced wine.

Of course it may not be true
In this particular case,
But England’s face
Is changing nonetheless.

My mistress’s green dress
Is frayed.
her lovers have strayed
– And the brewry’s bills must be paid