My first pint in a pub cost me 99p,
When I bought it, I saw Stella as too costly,
Guinness looked like coffee
and I was not at an age
where my caffeine fix was a daily requirement.
I scuttled to the bar,
aged 16, under the age requirement,
the barmaid turned to me,
asked to see my ID,
and barely held back scoffing.
Too much hassle to enquire
for me to go from quiet to fiery,
she just risked a firing.
Minimum wage just isn’t worth the headache.
So I continued with my order,
trying to sound older,
my last baby tooth still spouting from my gums.
“Whatever pint is cheapest”,
I say, going from confident to sheepish,
I know I have succeeded
as she grasps the glass that will contain my drink.
She tells me the cost, in a rush,
wanting to get rid of this strange boy
who clearly was not 24,
I hand her a quid
and with a blush tell her to keep the change.
My victory lap from the bar to my mates,
is quickly soured,
as the fumes from what I ordered creep
from my cup to my face.
Hints of rotten fruits, and maybe arm-pit?
I don’t’ like the smell, and can’t mask it
as I trudge the sticky wet carpet
to the mosh of my mates.
this definitely was not my Robinson’s orange squash.
From what cauldron did she conjure this,
this underage serving witch?
I grimace as it touches my lips.
It will always stick with me, my first drink,
99p’s worth of forced down stink.
I’ve never had one since in my dismay, v that thing, that drink,
my 99p Greene King IPA.