A POEM about the closure of the Queen Elizabeth pub: You never saw the work that went on behind the door. It s not just pulling pints and mopping the floor! Did what they could, where the drugs were concerned! It s out of control, we have since learned. T

A POEM about the closure of the Queen Elizabeth pub:

You never saw the work that went on behind the door. It's not just pulling pints and mopping the floor!

Did what they could, where the drugs were concerned! It's out of control, we have since learned.

They come home to you at the end of the night, do you know the symptoms? Could you put it right?

Talk to your kids, you might find, they need your help, here's the drugs line: 0800 776600.

The little square wrap thrown where you can't find, the white residue that's left behind.

Straightened-out banknote, with curled-up edge! The white residue still on Sir Edward Elgar's head.

A permanent sniff, no, it's not a cold. Find out now or they won't reach too old!

Paranoid persons with their arteries narrowing, there'll be no good ending, it will be harrowing.

You think that's tough, we don't know our kids! How do you think Myra felt in the Liz?

Well done to you, you have passed the blame!

The drug raid got them, tried to put them to shame!

Just to let you know,

Myra, Cindy, Deb and John, have no shame, you're all very wrong!

They've done their best, to the end, with the bar staff's help and little Lol, their friend.

Name and address withheld