Fun In The City - Poem by George Howard
By GeorgeHoward 05.2010
Passing doors of torturous din,
Glancing through at the sheep within.
Competing Bulls, testosterone soaked air.
Spangled females, skirts short, legs bare.
Talking the talk of fools, laced with shot after shot.
Boasting idiots, lying about drinks they’d had not.
Legless Jesters, kissing the gutters, unable to rise.
Girlfriends stooping to lift them, unable, with surprise,
Beckoning colleagues to help, with their chore.
Penguin bouncers, looking on and laughing on the door.
They’ve seen it so many times, never ceases to amaze.
Watching all the drunken hordes staggering in a haze.
Round and round in circles they go.
Following the ‘action’, going with the flow.
Next, it’s off to the nightclubs, queuing for miles.
Looking like worn out cattle, locked up in stiles.
Fooling the doormen, giving false identity,
Popping pills, trying to fool and prove their sobriety.
Bragging sops at the bar, “Give us alcohol, we’ll sup it! ”
Falling about the dance floor, like a string less puppet.
Thrown out to the taxi ranks, retching up over a fence.
Jumping the queue, a signal for fighting to commence.
Ten onto one, he just doesn’t stand a chance.
No one to help him, not one dare advance.
He tries running the gauntlet, just makes twenty feet.
The pack hits and trips him, he crashes to the floor, now beat.
But the pack doesn’t stop now, for blood they can sense.
Now foetal he goes, they stick the boot in, he goes tense.
One hero gives a flying kick to the prone victim’s head.
They continue, but he cares no more, for he’s now dead.
The heroes cheer and jeer, running off in the crowd.
Someone covers the body with a jacket, like a shroud.
The sergeant walks up the mile long drive, to the bell.
Knowing what next will happen, knowing it will be Hell.
Flowers on the causeway, a sign of his life, now past.
Friends with their shots, raise their glasses, “May his memory last! ”
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