Out on the tiles

Intimate elephants greet me at the door

And character carries me in.

Old achievements sit above the bar

And old friends sit below the smoke.

The barmaid is not French

But the British sure like this yard.

Beers rain in from far and wide,

And the booze hangs cool with rocks and the neat.

Music climbs from out of the circus box,

And above the ceiling music walks as well.

My elbows rest on the tiles

And my back slumps like a smile.

The Harp is not an instrument,

Yet I love to play it by the pint.

Food from the grill is the best around,

And from the look of this jungle,

Kipling might come.