Football is ballet

This pub is London's unfriendliest scene

I'm merely waiting
The decor is brown and corrupted maroon

Like a diseased lung
Stacked chairs, like a junk shop or lumber room
Blue neon glowing
A pool table's violent shade of green

The pub flies the local team's tattered flag
In a faded display
Of embattled and proud hostility
It's hardly gastro
Seriously, it needs a makeover

The locals don't care

Grimy authenticity is is their bag

A giant screen dominates every angle

As the flat-capped men
With their grunts, four letter words and pints, seek
Amber oblivion
Watching inarticulate millionaires
Prod a small white ball
Gracefully, around a green rectangle

Bravely, I request some food and coffee
No? Do you have crisps?
A grudging yes from the barman, he's the
Tormentor-in-chief
These people's lives lack colour, poetry –

Football is ballet
For Christ's sake don't tell them. They would kill me