Slightly different words gleaned from the album "Out of Wedlock", the title of which kind of fortuitously relates to relations between Miles and the singer for a number of years. I think they have made up their differences now tho'.

EARLY ONE EVENING

Early one evening, just as the pubs were opening,
A traveller came walking down a cold and rainy street,
Noticed the door ajar,
Stepped into the public bar,
"Landlord, I would like a drink, and something nice to eat".

"I fancy some some crusty bread, and roast beef of old England,
Butter from the churn, and tangy home made pickles too,
And if you think you could,
Draw some bitter from the wood,
I'd be most content to quaff a foaming pint or two".

"I'll sit here by your open fire, and contemplate infinity,
The quiet of your hostelry shall creep into my heart,
And if a regular,
Should chance to step into the bar,
Mayhap I'll engage him in a contest with the dart".

"Come in", said the landlord, "I got prepacked fishpaste sandwiches,
And soya sausage substitute I purchase by the ton,
And should you fancy it,
I might defrost a bit,
And plaster it with ketchup, on a supermarket bun".

"I'll sling you a plastic pot of supersparkle Reddibru,
As advertised on telly, by a famous rugby scrum,
No filthy barrels 'ere,
We serves 'ygenic beer,
Safely paralysed inside these aluminium drums".

"Sit dahn by the fire squire, I'll switch the logs on right away,
Or maybe you'd prefer to play my latest fruit machine,
Free cherries in a row,
That should set yer 'eart aglow,
Or 'ow about me jukebox, that should really set the scene".

The traveller sat down beside the polystyrene inglenook,
The plastic beams vibrating to the electronic sound,
Took a bite, began to chew,
Sank his pint of Reddibru,
Gave a ghastly gurgle, and fell dead upon the ground.

"Oh dear", said the landlord, as he switched his colour telly on,
"Another fatal accident, the third this week, I fear,
If they can't 'old their own,
Why don't they stay at 'ome,
MY GAWD, YER DON'T 'ARF GET SOME FUNNY CUSTOMERS IN 'ERE".