by Ed Pickford It was Saturday night in the bar-room And the usual crowd was there The bloke who cheats at the dominoes And the landlord with re-moveable hair Then out of a night so snowy Stepped a tramp - humbly within His face was lined with rough living And his whiskers were soaked with rough gin He ordered a half of strong bitter And he gazed at the joy all around Then he made a wide arc with his left arm And it was then that he uttered this sound. He said, 'Give me order I beg you, And I'll tell you a bit of a tale It'll only take a few minutes And I promise your beer won't go stale.' 'Get out!' said the hard-faced bartender 'We won't have no stories in here We don't get no profit from stories And it's hard enough selling this beer.' 'You heard the bartender,' said a tallish young man You're making this place look a mess For I am a plain clothes policeman Disguised in these boots and this dress. 'What's the trouble?' said the pub's drunken manager In his lips was a strong cigarette You'll be one of them longhaired guitarist From the Salvation Army I expect'. 'No it's not!' said a white-haired old lady 'It's just an old man with a tale.' 'Then send him back to the dogs' home.' Said Geordie whilst supping his ale. Then Joe who was playing the piano For just £1.50 a night Thought to placate the whole company With a tune that was merry and light 'Stop that playing!' screamed Big Geordie Who was standing there bad with the beer And he gave him a swipe to ease his own gripe And he ended a brilliant career. Then Sticky MacFadgen - for that was his name Went berserk when he saw Cousin Joe And though six stone wet through, he grabbed bottles two And swore that he'd soon have a go. But nine bottles of ' broon' had ruined his aim And he missed drunken Geordie by yards All that he did was to cripple poor Sid Who was just sitting there - playing cards. Then Sid's wife made a grab for her handbag And from it she drew forth a knife She made a quick stab at MacFadgen And she ruined the poor man's sex life. This caused a row and a ruction For MacFadgen was a popular lad And besides that he played for the darts team And he was the best bloody player they had. The battle commenced then in earnest Each one took sides in the fight Except for the manager's pet budgie Who bombed everybody in sight! Then in rushed a bus trip from Sunderland They were bound for the French Eiffel Tower They were weary of travel and gagging for drink Because they'd been on the bus for an hour. At the head of the crew was a lady called Lou Who was renowned for her skill with a whip From 25 yards she could cut packs of cards And have a pretty good try at your zip This ungallant crew had swallowed a few And one was heard to relate 'By!... this is the way to spend Saturday night Culture and Paris can wait!' The wounded lay moaning and groaning Some asked to be given last rites Even the poor budgie was wounded Struck by a dart in mid-flight. One man alone was left standing It was the tramp with the gin soaked old face Who finished his drink at the double And went in search of a quieter place.
The end