The city lights flicker off and on,
Paving the way for the self-styled Don.
Babes and dude-bros, dressed to the nines,
Wait outside in shivering lines.
Decrepit crews wander the mile,
With a lack of purpose or while.
The passive observer waits in his dark corner,
Victim to the taunts of him and her.
He does not question their wicked humours,
For to them he is another of societies tumours.
And the tendrils of smoke drift above the rabble,
Prima facie evidence of Friday's drunken babble
Comments about this poem (Friday Night by Ben Guerin )
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