A Poem
By Chris Tait
Filter in with blemished tickets
Serve and spray nectar in buckets
Drinking like swallowing swords
Cursing with heathen words
Zombies fire breathing poison
Three spirits give predictions
An Aladdin’s cave of optics
Fumes and toxins are so septic
People touch and nip like crabs
Debts tally up on tabs
Night clubs like rabbit holes
Three-legged dance moves with moles
Slimy bunkers underground
Where tramp motley crews hound
Like they are dragged to the dog pound
Box and barrel pyramids
Pubs are laid out in town’s grids
Tins with misfitting lids
Ordering drinks is doing bids
The building is slow to recover
People are quarantined hungover
