A Lament for the Lost Pubs of England

The Queen's Head was a lovely pub
With well-kept beer and smashing grub
The roses climbed around the door
And ancient was the flagstoned floor
The locals used to have a laugh
The Vicar'd pop in for a half
But now to drink they have to roam
The Queen's Head's now a nursing home.

Nor can they go to the Brown Cow
It isn't selling ale right now.
The price of beer drove out the fellas
Who, Tesco-bound, buy cut-price Stellas.
The Globe no longer shows the nations
But, round the back, they dig foundations
The Yorkshire Gray, where once we'd sup,
With metal sheets is boarded up.

The evening falls, across the land
returns the hungry, thirsty band
Where once they'd sink a pint at ease
Discussing shares, or pig disease,
They sit and watch "Celebrity"
drink cans of Stella, eat some tea
Then pass out watching some old bore
wake on the couch at half-past-four

and wish the British pub was here -
it's more than just expensive beer.
But thanks to supermarkets brash,
the boozers all ran out of cash.
We sit at home, in isolation,
a shrunken, drunken, lonely nation.
And if the White Horse should close down
We might as well all go and drown.