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.