If you follow the rainbow across the world,
Over mountains and under seas,
If you follow the ribbon through the changing skies
You'll reach the end, they say.
They're right in that - so physics says,
But in something else they're wrong:
There are no leprechauns to trip on,
(except the bartender)
No gold to run through greedy fingers.
There's something else instead.
A pub.
There's a pub at the end of the rainbow.
It serves beer milked from clouds (they giggle a bit) and
peanuts picked from cirrus trees.
They have been handled
by people who have handled other things
and now have grimy hands.
But people eat them anyway
because they're a little too drunk to care -
And pretend to forget if they're not.
The pub at the end of the rainbow was never given a name,
Because Rainbow's End sells buttons in Swanage
and trinkets, made of world, not sky,
And there're no angels with a taste for a good shandy,
And no Fosters from the end of the world.
So follow the rainbow,
Over mountain high and hill not-so-high,
Cross a few rivers and a couple of errant deserts,
Hold your breath,
Hop twice, spin in a circle with a rowan rod -
