Pub Crawls / Pubs, Scrawl'd

Shall not snuggery sojourns and speakeasy spree/rambles
start with iambic pentameter preambles?

Of all the bogus bars, gin mills, canteens,

sakayas, gay bars, brew pubs, cuca shops,
red lanterns, supper rooms, saloons, shebeens,
meyhanes, BYOs, pieds-a-hops
in all the urbs and ‘burbs about this ball,
why’d whetted whistles sing of these oases...?
Why these (trump’d-up tied bars and taverns all)...?
Why framed milieus...?
Why famed “who’s who”s,
feign’d views, stain’d loos,
fake wait-staff crews...?
Indeed, why choose
bent booze and brews
from fabricated places...?

The Angler's Rest in Wodehouse's Mulliner Nights 

A Wodehouse roadhouse! There I’d first while hours

(“Miss Postlethwaite: a half, please, of your best!”),
my Mild amid their Stouts and Lemon Sours.
In short, I’d hang (in shorts) at Angler’s Rest,
to savor sev’ral spells – ideally, dozens –

with Mulliner (that’s Mister M to you)...

regaled with tales of M’s amazing cousins:
the silly stuff
(such guff, much, fluff;
such puff: much, bluff,
yet ne’er enough)
he claims they say and do.

The Alpha Inn in Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle"

The Alpha Inn enjoys a parlour bar.

It’s Windigate’s. I’d cue there, third to order.
Those two (Hello! You well know who they are)
distinguish Alpha’s geese from Alpha’s porter.
The first is Doyle’s PI; through clues he combs
to crimes from times before electric chairs.
He’s Doctor Watson’s Johnson, Sherlock Holmes!
One dick, one doc
and – drei – me nigh.
“But why...?” you’re asking.
“Why me...? Why...?”
It’s Holmes and Watson, bre’rs!
Let share their drafts who dares.
Now’s closing time…? Who cares!

The Admiral Benbow Inn in Stevenson's Treasure Island 

A “pleasant-sittyated” grogshop, pegg’d

The Adm’ral Benbow Inn in RLS’s
Treasure Island, wherein single-leg’d
Jack Tars ‘n’ salts (some, cooks) brook mix’d successes.
There’s where I’d deign drop anchor, near Kitt’s Hole,
to, parch’d, partake of Hawkins’s strong rum...
and, perch’d before the fire, well-stok’d with coal,
taste tunes tenfold,
from sea dogs old,
of maps enfolding
secrets sold
for buried gold,
of “…heat and cold…
and all the old
romance retold…”
(including some concerning mould-
infected apples in the hold)
until my eardrum’s numb
(with sailor’s tales a-hum).

Rick's Cafe Americaine in Michael Curtiz's Casablanca*

I’d pen a phrase for fans of classic flicks

like “…all the bars in all the towns…(etcetera),”
or maybe “Everybody comes to Rick’s,”
then scribble out, in verse, an alphabet or a
haiku, one penn’d best at Signor Ferreri’s,
abetting his Blue Parrot crew’s new tricks
to loot from Blaine Américain sans “sorry”s.
(You see how everyone does come to Rick’s...?)
I’d steal a Steinway, swipe a Sam to “Play it!”
(Did Ilsa say “…again…”? No, she did not,
Though Sascha…) But, alas! I could not stay. It
works out quite slick
for Lund and Vic,
but Lou and Rick
do exit schtick
and, what with visas none too thick,
those Nazi plots grow hot.
(Loike, a poisson could git shot.) 

     * Curtiz directed the film. The screenplay was based 
on a play written by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison.

The Chalice in Jaroslav Hasek's The Good Soldier Svejk 

I’d drink with Svejk a black from Palivek,

who, with his wife, landlords it o’er The Chalice.
I’d drink. I’d wink. I’d warn (in cashier’s Czech)
of undercover snitch Bretschneider’s malice,
and hope, with this, my twist to Hasek’s tale,
no altered u’d occur, ordaining poor,
course Palivek to not sit out, in jail,
his war, nor Svejk
the eldertyke
to bike (not hike) 
around the reich

Battuta-like 

on path and pike,

misfortunes to explore.