Crusty Old Men

Fizzing and bubbling on the surface
And the crusty old men
That are in the pubs at 11.
Tragically experiencing a pleasure we all fear.
They have devoured the need for sanity
And when they laugh in that melodious sadness
There is only the ring of truth that is unbearable,
But they bear it, they have learnt to bear it.
We create worlds to avoid this naive existence
And it is we who are trapped under annoyances
We have secretly slipped into our own back pockets.
They have grey hair and ruddy skin and they perform
A pint lift with the mechanical certainty,
A technique honed, of an Olympian of the absurd.
We will never learn the hard won soul
of the men that inhabit the pubs at midday.