Our Customer Jack Poem by Donna Caldwell

Seated on the bar stool
Our Customer Jack
In one hand Theakstons bitter
The other a cigarette pack

Sporting a wiry moustache
Which curls around his face
He will speak to anybody
Or may stare off into space

He fills us with his problems
Almost every day
Everything he confides
Is sad in every way

The melody of Patsy Cline
Echoes through the room
Tears appear in his eyes
Always at this tune

Eight pints of bitter later
And a whisky always neat
His face has flushed a shade of red
And he’s quivering in his seat

Wearing his grey mac
It’s never off his back
The bar will lose its character
Without our customer Jack