By
Rob
All
of Sheffield's pubs are shut,
The
Red Lions and the Whites,
Up
with this we'll have to put,
For
many coming nights.
The
Closed Shop has closed shop,
Like
the Punch Bowl and the Plough,
From
Chapeltown to Manor Top,
There
lies an eerie silence now.
There's
little life in West Street Live,
Or
in much of town at all,
No
buzzing in the Beehive,
Not
even ghosts in Carbrook Hall.
The
Brown Bear's in hibernation,
The
Roebuck's hiding in the brush,
The
Three Cranes chose migration,
The
Fat Cat's in the Hollin Bush.
The
Red Deer is lightly snoozing,
The
Itchy Pig is loudly snoring,
Because
no beer and nightly boozing,
Sure
makes life profoundly boring.
So
it's now last orders at the bar,
At
the Tavern and the Gardener's Rest,
No
more jazz at the Lescar,
A
solemn pausing of Pubquest.
