I must go down to the pub again for a slow-pulled pint and a pie,
(All I’ll need is a true mate, with ample funds, to buy)
In a cool glass, with a smooth head, my hot thirst slaking,
The tart tang on my parched tongue, sets my whole frame quaking.
I must go down to the pub again, for my throat is burning dry
Though it’s my call, and a dear call, it’s a call I can’t deny.
So what I want is a breezy pal to ask me what I’m drinking,
With great dash and ready cash and the bright coins glinting.
I must go down to the pub again – to a stagg’ring, tipsy life,
To skive away all the licensed day, though snide remarks are rife;
And all I ask is a cheerful chum, perhaps a Returning Rover,
Who’ll let me swoon in a darkened room and sleep until I’m sober.