by Roz Bruce
Did you say it was a great town?
Well, no – I said “grey” town.
Even that building where the beer is made
Is painted shineless silver.
And that is not to say
A nifty shade of grey.
With a red rectangle banged upon it.
I’m talking about Coors,
We all know Bass
Sports a red triangle of course.
And these symbols make it to the pint glass
To remind us where we’re from.
It doesn’t matter where you’re drinking;
Burton’s on the pint’s bottom.
I wonder why they didn’t put it at the top,
Then we could jump around with pride
Before we’re altered by the hops.
But no, you need to reach the bottom
Before you make your claim to fame
“That’s where I come from: B-O-T!”
And suddenly that seems less lame.
There’s a red symbol
On the white waste
That’s left over from the froth.
It looks almost like the brewery itself
Is on the table feeling lost.
“Where am I? I belong in Burton, not this strange peculiar town.
And who are you? Why are you groping me? Fill me up or put me down!”
But it’s still a glass.
And they don’t talk to you – however drunk you are,
They don’t morph into breweries, either,
They need refilling at the bar.
I spotted an alarming similarity in the colours of Coors Brewery
And the face of the man who just passed,
I can tell I’m back in Burton;
In his eyes I see he knows about my past,
Not that it’s colourful.
I couldn’t tell you what it is.
But we can keep on trying to shine,
Or at least to find out what shining is.
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