The Pint of Poetry with Nuts Sonnet

[Leanne]

The bottom of the glass is drawing near
as clouds roll in; the stars will drink tonight,
but not at Flanagan’s on Fleet, where beer
is green and grass is rolled and set alight.
What dreams may come, beneath this mouldy sky?
What visions splendid spread in smoke and brew?
The fire Blake saw in tiger’s burning eye
has somehow caught alight upon my shoe.
As amber bubbles float in sweet release
to flame the blood, a miracle takes place:
that bloke looks taller somehow, less obese...
I wonder how he’d feel upon my face?
The poetry of lager sings off-key
for fat drunk karaoke bloke and me.