Driving through the countryside we spot a quaint old pub,
both of us could eat a horse, so agree to stop for lunch.
Just an ordinary pub it was, nothing fancy, nothing posh,
but a pub, I can assure you, that I never have forgot.
Had a myriad of corny signs like, ‘Better Duck or Grouse’,
meticulously scripted by the master of the house.
The fireplace looked inviting though, with its basketful of logs,
yet there, inside the inglenook, lurked a piped-in, gas-fire job.
The walls were painted vomit-brown – the ceiling, fag-end puce,
as I remarked to husband Tim, as I sipped my orange juice.
We thought we’d try the sirloin steak, with chips along with veg.
“Spotted-Dick is all we’ve left,” the sour-faced barman said.
Decided we’d give lunch a miss; it was time to make a move,
but first I’d pay a visit to the ladies’ powder room,
as depicted by a cow-girl on the scrawled-on toilet door
which I duly locked behind me, put my handbag on the floor.
Minding my own business on the tacky toilet seat,
heard something right behind me like a strangled kind of tweet.
“Who’s a got a sassy ass then?” a voice so plainly said,
and jumping up that instant, saw a parrot by my head;
perched on the fan-light window, brilliant blue and all a-twitter,
a twinkle in his beady eye as I stood there minus knickers.
A touch dismayed I ran outside, told the barman what I’d seen –
husband busy playing with the bloody fruit machine!
Said, “Not sure if you’re aware of this, but a parrot’s in your loo.
It was very disconcerting, I don’t mind telling you!”
“No worries, love. Old Blue’s OK; he goes there, now and then –
ever since his missus died. It’s the only kicks he gets!”