England's Green and Pleasant by Leslie

[cameron]

England's Green and Pleasant

Far from home and on the town,
old strings stretched and broken,
experiencing amnesia for
the warnings Dad had spoken,
nonchalance and confidence
based on what I’d seen
portrayed by hard-boiled Private Eyes
on the cinema screen.

In a bar, though underage –
the barman surely knew –
without a flicker of an eye
said, “What can I get you?”
“Whisky,” that’s what P.I.s drank
and ‘whisky’ sounded tough.
“Scotch or Irish?” I hadn’t known
the Irish made the stuff.
“Scotch on the rocks,” good movie talk,
so that’s what got my vote;
the barman pushed across the glass,
I handed him a note.
The till’s bell rang a sharp alarm
that caught me unawares;
the barman asked, “Want your change
down here or up the stairs?”

The whisky made me cough a bit;
as soon as I could speak,
“Down here,” I said, but was annoyed
it came out in a squeak.
He grinned and pushed my change across,
his left eye winked a tad,
which said he knew I was just one
of England’s green and pleasant lads.

Leslie