Just two quid on the counter.
The key to elusive peace
and eternal happiness.
One pint please.
Beyond the gates of heaven
the rivers flow down the steps,
and you can swim in them forever.
Two pints please.
Armour forms around the feet and arms
as the fire erupts in the bowels.
The walls high, stout, unassailable.
Flames melt the stone into a broth,
the fire becomes an inferno.
The rigours of the day
melt on sight when the king
sits half-on-half-off his throne.
A golden glass is his sceptre,
white froth forms his dripping crown.
Not so much riding as staggering into town,
throwing the gates open, claiming them
as his own.
Bouncers descend on his grace,
the king of the world never backs down.
He ends it face down on the concrete,
his liquor spilling from his can
into the cold gutter underfoot.
The fire burns out,
leaves its cinders behind.
They smoulder in the morning
and the world goes up and down.
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