The Governor
He rarely spoke, he didn’t need to,
some called him lazy,
others called him sensible,
he’d sit at the end of the bar
on a stool that could barely
hold his weight,
that’s what made him cool,
he didn’t care about
the minor details,
Fridays he’d dress in black,
shoes were shined,
shirts and trousers pressed,
the life of a publican ain’t glamorous
it’s not supposed to be
that’s why no one wants to do it,
his only exercise was
walking from the bar
to the beer garden
to smoke a cigarette
they were always
hand rolled with such
careful consideration,
if compacted too tight
the flame wouldn’t
impregnate the Rizla correctly,
thus, making each drag impotent,
if too loose, you’d find yourself
sucking on a dandelion stem,
the perfect hand rolled cigarette
comes through years of practice,
akin to mastering both
snooker and darts,
pinpoint accuracy is required
and this can only be perfected
by spending way too much time
down the pub
he oozed old London,
fists first, conversations second,
match day scuffles,
strict codes of conduct
had to be followed,
step over the line, you’d be
thrown out the door headfirst,
around here
we respect,
we welcome,
there ain’t no time for
‘Billy big bollocks’
there’s racing on the box,
fruit machines
£100 jackpots,
the morning line,
analysing the odds,
drinking starts at noon
we said goodbye to the Governor
on Friday 18th of September 2026
it was raining, it was one hell
of a London, cockney men
and women proud of their roots
spilled out of The Rose of Denmark
and onto the pavements
of the Woolwich Road,
people drank, sung, balled
and laughed,
tears weren’t wasted
connection wasn’t wasted,
respect wasn’t wasted,
one of the hardest things
in life is to say goodbye
to someone you know
is never coming back,
but tonight there were
no ‘goodbyes’ only
‘farewells’ and
‘I’ll be seeing you soon’
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