The speaker is a downtown bartender
in a pub tagged by a bad dream --
walls adorned with terms of union like
"margarine shall not be sent or shipped"
mocking Tippsy McStagger's approach path.
They slink through the green and pink
door, pale-white as put-down rebels --
busy leaning bees talking tough at the taps
as the stout settles and the speaker
listens to the buzz all the while.
He locks the door as the hour grows late.
The bar is a state of affairs.
The patrons are a nation stripped of title
and leadership but that of the tender,
the only sober head in the room,
watching the slack-jaws jabbering.
He pours the drink and can't help but think
the Republic is a farce to sell booze to muppets.