The bar of the Red Lion

A malformed lamb, oppressed in a box,

is touched by drunks, passing their love

over a soft white head; it’s not a hoax

when you see his earlobes twitch and move.

I am alone, I am a stray.

I can no longer see the sky.

Into your senses only today.

I’m born and soon I’ll die.

He rises, tries to seek out grass

but legs collapse and down he slides

into paper, cardboard, plastic, pass

me a pint I’ll keep him alive.

I am alone, I am a stray.

I can no longer see the sky.

Into your senses only today.

I’m born and soon I’ll die.

It seems like, if we keep on drinking,

an invisible friend will join the round;

supping, sloshing, slurp, not thinking

it’s late, here comes the ground.

I am alone, I am a stray.

I can no longer see the sky.

Into your senses only today.

I’m born and soon I’ll die.

Shepherds suggest ‘knock his head’,

farmers nod – an old debate

and when I shuffle off to bed;

the session’s done, lights out, goodnight.