Old Tom was a churchman
Old Tom was a churchman
But his pulpit was at the bar
Of the Coach House
Every night until lights out
He may have gone to Church on a Sunday
But still found his way
To the pies on the counter
Of the public bar
Almost crawled home
For dinner
Roast beef it would be
Warmed-up in the oven
His wife threatened to put it in the bin
The dog was always on hand
To clean up any spillage
More food missed Tom’s mouth
Than found it, not that it mattered
Steak and Ale pie
Had filled the hole
All he could eat from the buffet
Laid out for free
Other folks brought the family
It was a carnival atmosphere
He only cared about pickled eggs
And craft-brewed beer
Gave thanks to God
For his good fortune
When he placed a bet
On the winner
Of a darts match
Dipped his eyes
To the chest of the barmaid
With his stomach pulled
In he was still quite a catch
So he thought
A lay preacher
He was
Who spent more time
On his back in the sack
Than writing a sermon
But always said a prayer
For the children
While his own kids were left to suffer
From the cold
As the coal had run out
Long ago
Tom was behind with his fiver
To the driver
Who otherwise would leave
A bag or two
Behind the coalhouse door
As he was passing
There would be no more until Tom
Caught up
Saying a prayer
Wouldn’t make up for hard graft
The Coach House was a life raft
Warm and welcoming
Into the night
The atmosphere always
Congenial
Tom was a churchman
Believing the lord would provide
If only he would do it sooner
Rather than later
Raised his glass to heaven
More than once
Raised his voice to his wife
Too often
One day he would stumble home
To find his suitcase
Standing by the back door
Where the coal-scuttle should be
When there would be no way back
Into the bosom of his
Downtrodden family
Better by far to stay in the bar
Where it was more convivial
Than see the disappointment
On the face of his wife
Who always reminded him
That he was the architect
Of his own
Woebegone miserable life
And not the victim