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Badger Poetry

Alan Zimbabwe
John Dillinger
Others
Clarence Peabody
Summer Fauve
Nick Green

Oh, buy me a drink, and lend me your time,
We'll have last of the summer of 77 wine...
It ain't aged well, but goes down fine,
Due to it's pedigree...
Twenty years and still it's taste
Aids the burnout come posthaste,
Time to kill and brains to waste,
 That's it's History.
Brewed in the city, and drunk in the slums,
To it's taste the youth succumbed,
Gallons drunk for years to come,
We wiled away the years.
Then the bar was full of skivers,
Cadging fags and lending fivers,
Now we meet the sole survivors,
Sharing wine and tears.
Some saw the score and changed their potion,
Jumped the ship and changed their notions,
As the chaos and commotion,
Vanished from the racks.
Those who tried to buy up stock,
Swapped their tartan and padlocks,
Slunk to whiskey and bad rock,
And covered up their tracks.
Some stayed behind to tend the brew,
Moving onto pastures new,
The country gentry hated them too,
Cried "Get Orf My Land!"
Back to the city, on the quiet,
Still they sought to beg or buy it,
Just to make a stand.
Now we're at the last few bottles,
Still the madness rolls full throttle,
Don't ask for whom the bell tolls,
It could be closing time.
So toast old friends till next we meet,
The wine that tastes so bittersweet,
Never yet to face defeat,
Last of the summer of 77 wine.