From memory, the only poetic licence is that. although true, they took place in several public houses over the years.
VIGNETTES FROM A YORKSHIRE PUB
There the old fellah silently sat,
tattoos of blue black coal dust,
a face worker, white fingers but
he never spills a drop.
I ask to join him, he says
Yes if you buy me a pint and don’t speak
The old lass leans over complaining
it’s too hot, fanning herself with
a beer mat. I agree and admire her
summer outfit of wool coat and hat.
She beams saying she always likes
to look posh when she comes to town.
Ernest, 4ft 6in and 100 years old,
the famous street pirate.
Begging change for a cup of tea.
Now emptying pockets full of coins
onto the bar. He gets £30 in return
and walks out without a word.
He doesn’t like the ale here.
I watch the man at the bar,
ducking, diving, weaving never still.
‘That’s Baz the boxer’ says a voice,
‘never stops does he’ I marvel,
‘he can’t’ came the reply, ‘he’s shit,
never won a fight, brain’s like custard.’