The Bigot nursed his pint,
and looked over at the Bar-Maid

‘It is Serendipity, that we are both here tonight’
he said looking with his wild eyed stare,
‘It is Serendipity that led me to this very chair’ he said.

‘No’ she replied ‘It is my misfortune’
she said staring through a cloak of indifference.
‘The Butcher of my happiness made a fair deal tonight’
she said, trying to confuse the oaf with obfuscation.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he said, but it was academic
‘Do you know how I am?’ she replied.

‘I will acquiesce to your charms’ he said,
ordering another pint.

The Bigot sits, his ire fuelled
By the Bigot’s bible,
The Daily Mail.

‘Have you seen this?’ he asks to no-one,
and he is surprised when no-one answers.
‘This is the story of some blinged up Footballer’
‘And this is the nectar of the Gods’ says the Oaf,
looking at his ice cold Guiness, to which his pint replies:

‘I get sold and sold and the cash registers ring.
I am the only thing you will be feeling tonight,
And that makes my spirit soar, and my heart sing’

The Oaf replied: ‘Not necessarily, it all depends on how the housemaid is feeling’

The Bigot is full of Phlegm and ideas,
But he does not always agree with them.

‘I’ve been here for two days’ he tells the Barmaid,
but she knows he is lying.

‘Tell me love’ he burps ‘How many blokes have asked you out?’
She tells him ‘Roughly 500 thousand, give or take a few’
‘So are you still single then?’
‘Yes, but ask me again tomorrow, and I may not be.
It all depends on the timing’

The Bigot nurses his pint,
Examines the failure of his life,
See his dreams as fluorescent nasturtiums,
The Barmaid is Unputdownable,
She has heard all of this before,
So he picks up his coat,
And heads out of the door.