Fluffster
Member
Yeah, yeah I know, it's an Urbex forum. But bear with me.....
I was talking with a buddy a couple of days ago about derelict buildings in general and he sent me this poem. He used to be the licencee of a pub that was 'next door' to the Gipsies Tent and had dreams of saving it.
I had no idea about it's existence until I did a seach on here and found that a lot of you have visited it - so I thought I'd share it.
I loved it, I hope you do too:
The Gypsies Tent
Dark and foreboding,
the empty shell stands a stark reminder of better times.
Shattered and broken,
dirty windows no longer sparkle or reveal the life within.
Ripped and torn,
once pristine curtains billow from the flat above.
Torched and besmirched,
the roof bears testament only to an arsonist’s night out.
Mouldy and faded,
only the woodlice dine here now on jaded timber.
Smashed and destroyed,
vandals have ensured the piano has given up its last note.
Grey and untouched,
ashtrays still remain with their Woodbines and Hamlets.
Dusty yet regimental,
old dimple pints stand to attention beneath the bar.
Longing and begging,
this hostelry yearns for investment and a vibrant atmosphere.
Forlorn and depressed,
the only new life is the gathering pile of post in the foyer.
Silent and eerie,
“Last orders” was called so many years ago.
Looking at so many of your pictues, the poem really came to life. So thank you to the people who photographed it and to Martin who wrote the words above.
I was talking with a buddy a couple of days ago about derelict buildings in general and he sent me this poem. He used to be the licencee of a pub that was 'next door' to the Gipsies Tent and had dreams of saving it.
I had no idea about it's existence until I did a seach on here and found that a lot of you have visited it - so I thought I'd share it.
I loved it, I hope you do too:
The Gypsies Tent
Dark and foreboding,
the empty shell stands a stark reminder of better times.
Shattered and broken,
dirty windows no longer sparkle or reveal the life within.
Ripped and torn,
once pristine curtains billow from the flat above.
Torched and besmirched,
the roof bears testament only to an arsonist’s night out.
Mouldy and faded,
only the woodlice dine here now on jaded timber.
Smashed and destroyed,
vandals have ensured the piano has given up its last note.
Grey and untouched,
ashtrays still remain with their Woodbines and Hamlets.
Dusty yet regimental,
old dimple pints stand to attention beneath the bar.
Longing and begging,
this hostelry yearns for investment and a vibrant atmosphere.
Forlorn and depressed,
the only new life is the gathering pile of post in the foyer.
Silent and eerie,
“Last orders” was called so many years ago.
Looking at so many of your pictues, the poem really came to life. So thank you to the people who photographed it and to Martin who wrote the words above.
