Night’s curtain lifts cautiously
afraid of the scene that awaits
The trill of the pigeon’s Sabbath chorale
Will prove insufficient means to placate
A disappointed deity
Who is soundly being ignored
By those congregating here yesterday
as the pubs and the clubs closed their doors.
The females in tiny clothing,
the men with the strut or the swagger
at the start of the night but come 2am
They can barely manage to stagger
To the closest pizza shop or kebab van
for a doner to settle the booze
served by foreigners milking our system
by toiling in kitchens and taking abuse.
In front of the bank was a scuffle
Between a blonde guy and his best mate
Over a bird and it’s not the first time a girl
turned their brotherly love into hate.
By sunlight the droplets of crimson
have mixed in with the piss and stale chips
Municipal cleaners arrive to erase all the signs
Of the Saturday night apocalypse.
Poetry for Dullards 