Sittin' by the telly.
Waitin' for a fare.
But on a Monday or Tuesday night.
Getting one is rare.
They come in and they mumble
Can they go here or there.
And in this drunken state
all they do is stare.
Then they stumble to the car.
A burger and chips in hand.
Reaching for the door handle.
Then on the ground they land.
The burger and chips like graffiti
across their body spreads.
And if they wern't attached to their necks,
they'd get up without their heads.
Across the seats they drag themselves
and homeward bound they go.
I hear some snorts and grunts come out
and pray it's not on my back they throw.
To their merry homes they get
and I hear the pennies jangle.
'What, it can't be that dear'
as they begin to wrangle.
Then I turn the light on and turn around,
and they know i'm ready to strangle.
And so they pay the fare
and out they get.
Glad to see their homes.
I wish to hell they'd stayed at home
and played with their garden gnomes.
How sad....If they could only see themselves. Maybe you could start making them a little video with a cool tune you could save lifes. A great write Mark.
I was a bartender for a while...I know just what you mean.....Good write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
And so they pay the fare and out they get. Glad to see their homes. Nice one.