In March they’re leaving Whitechapel
but not before a Jack The Ripper tour.
She thinks it’d be too scary for now
and he doesn’t really give a shit.
He seems to be a writer of sorts,
preoccupied with a first draft deadline.
As he daydreams and says nothing,
her questions and comments stack up.
The White Hart’s been given a revamp
of new woodwork and hoppy ales.
It’s just a shame they’re moving on
as they prefer it to over the road.
They trade spuds and carrots,
sticking to an orange juice and wine.
A darts game fills a wide screen
and another sleepy Sunday concludes.