The Pub Singer.

The Japanese may have invented Karaoke.

But we’ve been doing it for years in the old smokey.

In every pub in the land,

many have been prepared to take the stand.

With a staggering that looks like a sway of the pelvis,

he’s up, thinking he can sing like Elvis.

The drunken drawl,

having a ball.

Alcohol induced,

musically seduced.

Out come the words,

a cheer from the hordes.

Not one discernible to the ear,

even this doesn’t stifle the cheer.

As to the left, a stumble,

another chorus an entire mumble.

A massive list to the right,

all know he aint lasting the night.

But a man he is and proud,

as he screeches Delilah aloud.

Up go the cheers,

a round full of beers.

Another to the stage,

the star of our age.

The first is his fave,

to the love he forgave.

Everyone sings along,

It’s everyone’s favourite song.

A slap of the thigh.

A wail or a cry?

The tune lost in the past,

alcohol seducing him fast.

Out came the washboard, the spoons and a table as a drum.

The rhythm of our times all will succumb.

The pub was the stage,

booze all the rage.

Singing the songs of the time,

without resonance to the chime.

So forget Karaoke, and the modern stuff.

Singing was raw and unsubtle and rough.

The pub singer is the king.

Unintelligible words the thing.

Be proud of the drunk,

the world’s original punk.

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