The tavern sweats of stale beer and tobacco, while
wenches robust, heaving bosoms on platter display,
rove the tables filled of lecherous eyes, and
tweezer pinches on firm round bums,
procure squeals of adverse fun,
while pewter mugs clatter loud
in the rambling drunken din.
And fights ensue amid foaming brew,
tables and chairs like kindling splinter,
and numbed red cheeks and blackened eyes,
scrambled limbs and faded sighs,
till no-one wins or bothers to,
and the drinking goes on,
until the dawn or slumber’s muse attends.
By morning’s first light the stench is set,
tables and floors a soaked of brew,
and dirt and grit and spit and spew,
can only attest this human zoo,
and maidens naked in beds of hay,
accosted and defiled and laid in slumber’s way,
now lost in better dreams of day.
At midday the tavern doors do open wide,
inviting all to come inside, this den of iniquity,
where tables scrubbed and floors all cured of beer,
come to life by candle light,
the shadows hiding all the lewd acts and sins,
that night proclaims its own, and been,
to once again de-thrown civility.
‘Three Hog’s Tavern’, an eloquent naming.