They clop into a backroom
and sit round the table nearest the dartboard.
When I go to get a round in
the barmaid says: 'Look, we don't want any trouble.'
'Then don't fall on us in a frenzy of stabbing
and phlegmy recriminations,' I counter,
slapping down a twenty pound note.
'Also, they've asked me to tell you:
please don't do the joke.'
'What joke?' she says, and I feel my face scrunch
like a stress ball. The bar clock
ticks like a deathwatch beetle.
'We've just come from a funeral,' I say.
'So please - have some bloody respect.'
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