The Prince Albert

I like visiting the Albert, I like the way it commands a crossroads,
Welcoming all cardinal points of the compass,
Just like a traditional inn should.

I like visiting the Albert in springtime, When vases of flowers greet you in the bar,
With vernal fragrance and equinoctial promise,
Stretching into blossoming infinity.

I like summer drinking in the Albert, With a pint of Alton’s Pride,
It’s like an infusion of Thomas Hardy,
With every novel you’ve ever read
Returning like a Native.

I like autumn drinking in the Albert,
When mists and mellow fruitlessness
Entwine themselves around the eaves,
Like a Woman in White.

I like winter drinking in the Albert,
Sledging down the snow-scaped common,
Then in the bar for mulled ale and wine,
Just like we’re in A Christmas Carol.

I like chatting in the Albert,
With a catholic clientele of Prince and Pauper,
And the occasional Sheriff of Nottingham.

I like walking around the Albert,
With a boulevard and a bowling green,
A welcome in the streets, a chat on the allotments,
It’s like the Orwell pub of his dreams.

I like the smokers at the Albert,
They congregate out the back,
Their stories are always good,
Just like Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

I like sitting in the Albert,
With its sofas, armchairs and ornaments,
It’s like the day when war broke out.

So I only visit the Prince Albert,
It’s the sans pareil of Stroud,
Once visited, then,
There is nowhere else to go.