Overhearing a Conversation in The Flowerpots, Cheriton

There was a power cut in the pub last night. All light but the fire's glow went
Out, and in the discontinuance, I mumbled, murmured, "Winter of Discontent",
"The 70s" and "Jeremy Corbyn", to parody the two men at
The next table, who, up until this outage, had been enjoying a chat
About the economy, each affirming the other's assertions that
All employees in the public sector are over-pensioned, indolent
And unprofitable. No one knew me well, and, excepting the fire, this veil meant
I could beard, and would satirise, bold enough not to belie the charming
Ale, as I am loath to misrepresent the pleasure I get from drinking,
With these barely-barbed rhubarbs, without fear of someone identifying
The source. Peripety-lumen, propelling the dark forward to foment
Uneasiness and consternation, my presence murmured darker yet, excrescent.