Leather Apron

As plain as his name above the door
And the burst capillaries in his cheeks
Waldren was the landlord
And he still made a profit most weeks.

He polished the bar each morning
Made sure he ran a tight ship
Kept his missus happy
And biffed anyone who dared give him lip.

He kept some knuckle-dusters
And a pistol behind the bar
Kept one wary eye on the whores outside
And ate pickled eggs from the jar

It wasn’t til the autumn of ‘88
That real trouble came to The Bells
A shift in feeling, hysteria rising
And a madman, loose From Hell.

John read the gruesome details
Felt his neck-hairs prickle with fright
And like the rest of London
Began to dread the onslaught of night.

At his post behind the bar
Every wasted face seemed to turn black
Mist crept in slowly through the half-open door
And out crept Saucy Jack….