Murderer At The Bar.

Waiting to be served,

he sniffs, sniffs vigorously,

the twitch of a moustache

upon a young unhandsome face,

a coarse face with no time for nonsense;

for clearly life has been no joke.

The cordial carry-on at the bar

—the barmen fancy themselves as comics—

will receive no sustenance from him.

His order will be just that, an order.

Whatever their lightheartedness,

his grave countenance will kill it,

will mercilessly murder it.

Meanwhile he waits, he stares, he sniffs.