POEM TITLE The Pot
POEM The Pot Just up the Forth, not far from here,
there lives a man who sells his beer.
And many sail the miles for what?
to find the famous Lobster Pot.
A quaint old place wi works of art.
A horse outside without a cart.
A face at window, makes one spook,
a prisoner there, just like the cook.
A dry wee dug might quench it’s thirst,
But not if Kelty got there first.
A stranger looking for a coffee,
The machine at the castle being truly awfy.
The broom is out, the dust cart too.
It’s Cathy here to clean the loo.
Thank God it’s open, I see the light,
I might pop in, give her a fright.
An ice cream melting in my hand,
I make my way down to the sand.
The tide is out, it’s disappeared.
In fields around, the sheep are sheared.
The ship shape castle on the bay,
with remnants of some early day.
When Cromwell’s troops were stationed here,
the locals surely lived in fear.
The names of ghosts carved in the stone,
who died in dungeons all alone.
The tides were high and flushed them out,
twice a day, you’d hear them shout.
The oyster shells lie on the shore,
No live ones now, we won’t get more.
I do not wish to sound so sad,
but things right now are pretty bad.
The only thing to bring us cheer,
is the Irish man who sells the beer.
The road is stained with yellow lines.
You park on there, you risk the fines.
It’s time to go inside the pub,
it really is the village hub.
Where people meet and all is fine,
a quiz night and a real good time.
The bathroom tiles are mighty grand,
expensive taste, designer brand.
The ceiling, a gallery for the mind,
helps one relax and then unwind.
To find this place, I’m truly blessed,
surely the best pub in Blackness.
I’m at the bar, I cannot wait,
the vegan food is truly great.
For me, there are no fish and chips,
only veggies touch my lips.
Of course the yeast can be ignored,
my pint of beer is being poured.
I do not claim to be a purist,
I’m really just a hungry tourist.
Looking for a place to go,
With happy faces who say hello.
The fireplace is full with dogs,
But I’d prefer it filled with logs.
They’re all made very welcome here,
And children too, it’s full of cheer.
I’ve had my meal, the chips were grand.
A nice wee dram rests in my hand.
My camera out, the sun sets low,
The boats out there begin to glow.
It’s time to leave but theres no rush,
The darkness falls, the birdies hush.
The water lapping at the wall,
It’s cold and I don’t want to fall.
It’s time for me to find my boat,
It’s dark and I put on my coat.
The lights are shining on the coast,
I smell the scent of burnt toast.
I push the tender from the pier.
It’s time for me to disappear.
But I have to say, I got the lot
The day I found the Lobster pot.
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