There was almost no better day

than that in which I told the old sailor,

some called traitor

to the flag, some called much worse,

and that’s not for me to remark upon,

to get the fuck out of my pub,

his brand of high seas, glassy eyed leering debate

was not wanted in amongst the beer

and the stains in which he passed his greasy

fingers between the glasses ready to be cleaned,

washed and scrubbed as he waited with

a vile lop sided grin for me to shake