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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=357776" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Spots Through the Ages</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=357776" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Romance goes out of everything in these days of ill grace,<br>And even old John Barleycorn grows 'standardised' apace;<br>Once henchman of gay gallantry, a kindlier part he played.<br>Scene: Tavern door. A saucy wench. A merry, ruffling blade.<br>He stops. She smiles. Arm round her waist. 'Could Eve be more divine?<br>See, a kiss, my pretty sweetling. Then, I pray, a stoup of wine.'</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=357776" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">'Twas in a 'silver' tassie' that Rab Burns pledged his lass<br>(The current one, 'tis understood). But days grows drab, alas.<br>Scene: London pub. Tiles. Glittering glass: and there, behind the bar,<br>A brass-haired goddess, proud, aloof from this meek gutter child.<br>'A pot o' four-'arf, thank yeh, miss. An' please to dror it ild.'</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=357776" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The scene shifts to Australia, 'where a man can raise a thirst.'<br>(See Kipling). From 'long-sleevers' now they drained the stuff acurst.<br>Back of beyond, by Clancy's run they've a had a six months' drought.<br>Scene: Old bush shanty. Summer. Flies. Six shearers 'cutting out.'<br>A shirt-sleeved, whiskered barman. Says Bill: 'By gum, it's 'ot!<br>Breast up, blokes. Name yer gargle. Rybuck, boss; mine's a pot.'</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=357776" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But mass-production now debunks old John, for olden sins;<br>They've 'synthesised' him, 'standardised' him, soldered him in tins.<br>Grog goes no more with gallantry, nor wine with poesy.<br>Scene: Chain store-grocer's. Pickles, clothes-pegs, jam, tinned salmon, tea.<br>Smug grocer (strict abstainer). enter cove in working duds.<br>He slings a sprat across the joint: 'Hoy! Gissa tinna suds!'</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Clarence+Michael+James+Stanislaus+Dennis">Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis</a></strong></div>