At the Black Bull in Preesall


We’d walked for miles down country lanes, and had an hour or two to kill
And with its ancient, bulging walls the Black Bull seemed to fit the bill.
A pub so old the ceiling beams were just above my shoulder blades.
The back room redefining snug, its sprawling hearth soon putting paid
To thoughts of stretching out my legs. Here history had shrunk with time.
“They must have bred ’em small back then. Another pint?” “Aye, that sounds fine.”
They have a dartboard in the yard. The oche’s in the porch out front.
A mediaeval doll’s house built, presumably, for peasant runts.
Thwack! “Damn and bollocks!” “Mind your head.” “I think I’ve bust my feckin’ nose!”
“Just stick a beer mat on th’ cut. They’re always doin’ that, tha knows.”
I staggered out with bloodied face. A passer by accosted me,
And muttered underneath his breath, “You’ve supped some stuff,” accusingly.


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