Fiction

Last Orders – Stan Ford


Stan Ford, landlord
Of the local village pub,
Served home brew and
Really quite indifferent grub.

Manly Stanley
Loved to show off his prowess;
Never missed a
Chance the ladies to impress.

Wine and dining
Wasn’t what he chose to do
But, bare-chested,
Carried barrels of his brew

Winking, thinking
This would knock the females dead;
Till one day he
Misjudged lifting, banged his head.

Sweating, fretting
That he’d done himself some ill
Stanley dropped the
Barrel right beside the till.

Moaning, groaning
Planks gave way beneath the keg:
Floorboards flying,
Splinters up and down his leg.

Booms of doom came
Issuing from down below
As exploding
Barrels one by one let go.

Thunder under
Stan’s feet meant the end was nigh:
Stan Lord, landlord,
And his pub were blown sky high.

Picture source: Frederick Dennstedt