The gentry honk

The gentry honk

Like geese

In the Horse and Hound.

A gaggle of wax jackets

And Oxford bags,

Shaping to stick it to

The barmaid with dirty barbs.

Having paid their dues

To etiquette

The working men

Slope off.

The Fox on the corner

Is more their style

Down to earth and cosy.

There is altogether

Too much Taly-ho

In the Hound

The smell of expensive leather

Riding tack

And old money.

There is no mutual understanding

Like, stuck with like.

It was ever the way

For the little Englander

Before the blurring

Of the lines.

The conscripted men

Still take their orders

But they all believe

They are the cool kids now.

The newly minted

And ambitious

Hang in the Coachhouse

Where the air is cleaner.

People pass through

With an eye for a prize

Places to go

People to see

Nobody cares for history.

Status is a fast car

Free-for-all

With money to spare

For the high life.

The word is

New money talks

Differently.

It walks with a swagger

Ducks and dives

A bit of this

A bit of that

Whatever keeps

Their powder dry,

The tick-tocking over.

In the King’s Arms

Over real Ale, cards

And a Royal flush

Time (gentlemen, please)

Is non-negotiable

The bar food is as stale

As a ’70s one-liner

And when a toast is called

The punchline always falls

Flat

Jam-side down.