The Pub

A Poem

by me

There's a little old pub in Tully More
where the lads drink too much tea
it's muddled with their minds, I hear,
for many a strange sight they see.

They speak of a fiddle that plays the cat
(but do not ask me how)
and the moon comes down from her lofty bed
to jump over the cow.

The boys in the pub watch the cat and the cow
till the faces of their wives turn stale,
for these lasses wish that their men would sober
up with a spot of ale.

So the ale is drunk, and the world is right;
for the lasses, none too soon,
and the cat plays the fiddle all through the night
and the cow jumps over the moon.