The Working Man’s Pint

The Working Man’s Pint was inspired by re-reading of A pint of plain by Flann O’Brien. The chorus was composed as I hungrily endured the wait for my pint to settle after a hot and dusty day’s work.
Mick Lynch 2009

Lyrics:

The Working Man’s Pint

Chorus

The working man’s pint, oh the working man’s pint

No halves or no shorts or cocktails will suffice

I know cos I’ve tried them in error before

Oh the pint’s what the artisan truly adores.

In the days of the pyramids history does tell

The bosses were cruel. Conditions were hell

But the pharaoh was crafty and at fall of night

The slaves they queued up for their couple of pints

But then came the locust and ate all the grain

It was pints and not Moses that made up their minds

So they upped and left Egypt in search of a pint

Chorus

In his Grecian Jacuzzi sat wise Archimedes

Encumbered with numbers and lumbered with theories

The problem in question was fluid displacement

The more they poured in it poured out on the pavement

He thought of the points and the quarts he’d imbibed

Reminisced on the pisses he’d had on the sly

He jumped up in the tub and jumped over the side

Said the streaker, Eureka, it’s down to the pints

Chorus

Leonardo Da Vinci was faced with a teaser

He’d got a commission to paint Mona Lisa

Just to make her look nice the advice from her geezer

But try as he might Leo just couldn’t please her

He laughed and he danced and he sang, he beguiled

But he just couldn’t get the old bugger to smile

So he plied her with cider, it took him a while

T’was the quarts that distorted her face in that style.

Chorus

On the bridge of the Enterprise Captain Kirk sighed

The Diluthium Crystal had finally died

The Klingons were closing, the future looked bleak

They had power for an hour never mind for a week

‘till a voice on the intercom said with some pride

This is Scotty, I’ve found some I’d put to one side

So go up to warp 9, leave the Klingons behind

Celebrate because later you’re buying the pints

Chorus

When you reach your life’s end and you go see your maker

Be you Buddhist or Baptist or Papist or Quaker

Unless you’re a sadist, a rapist or faker

A doer of harm or a total piss taker

St Peter will greet you with arms open wide

He’ll unlatch the catch and he’ll haul you inside

With his arm round your shoulder with joy he’ll confide

That the stout’s on the house ‘till the end of all time.

Chorus