The Withered Hand
In the village of Grumbly Bottom
Stands a pub called The Withered Hand
Its walls are all covered in Ivy
So it looks like its part of the land.
The door opens heavy and oaken
And that sweet stale stench slaps the snout
The bars so well stocked it’s appalling
With its gauntlet, the onset of gout.
There’s a dartboard set up in one corner
Though the arrows don’t have any flights
And the pool balls are rarely sent clacking
There’s no bulbs in the overhead lights.
The Withered Hands staff’s mostly friendly
Though there’s nary a local at hand
To tell you it’s often this empty
Because of a horrid old man.
He sits at a table all glum like
Sipping ale from a tankard of tin
And he only looks up from his scratchings
When the door lets some poor bugger in.
He’ll start with a scowl and a mumble
But nothing stays under his breath
His disdain is always most forthcoming
And he wishes all nothing but death.
He’ll prop up the bar for another
A froth dropping bitter and mild
And he’ll waft his tweed smell like a cheddar
Shouting “HA!” at nothing with no smile.
He’ll flick peanuts at bewildered children
He’ll tell you your wife’s a fat cow
He’ll swear at you loud and profusely
‘Til you say, “Darling, we’re leaving NOW”.
Then he’ll sit back with shoulders a shaking
From a guttural laugh deep within
And he’ll draw from his pint all contented
And let brown tears drip from his chin.
So if you pass through Grumbly Bottom
Don’t stop at The Withered Hand
There’s a Weatherspoons just up the high street
Which is a third of the price and it’s two for one curry club on a Wednesday.
