The Church, the Post Office, the Bank,
Alright, but the pub is the hub.
The Village Hall or Green, the car boot sale,
Of course, but the pub is the hub.
Leather on willow, oval or round ball on Playing Field mud,
Jolly good, but the pub is the hub.
Fish ‘n’ Chip Shop, Takeaway, Curry House,
Yum, yum, but the pub is the hub.
Big Ben, St Paul’s, Madame Tussaud’s,
Mais oui, but the pub is the hub.
The pub to rub shoulders with neighbours or strangers,
The pub for a pint and some no-nonsense grub.
The pub to talk politics, sport or hydrangeas,
The pub to feel snug as a bug in a rug.
I’ve read in the press of the Death of the Pub.
Quite likely this claim is way over the top,
But thirty-nine boozers are closing each week,
That makes near one hundred and sixty a month,
Which means about one thousand nine hundred a year,
So how long before there is not one pub left?
No Wheatsheaf, no King’s Head, no old Rose and Crown,
No focus, no fulcrum for village or town.
Nowhere to play snooker, darts, cribbage or skittles,
No Milk Stout, no Pale Ale, no Lager, no Bitter.
You’re left with your mobile, your Facebook, your Twitter,
All fine in their way, not the same as a pub.
McDonald’s or Starbucks and Cybercafés,
Such places are where people hang out today.
I’ve nothing against them, they all are OK,
But the pub is the hub!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem