***** girls, with tight short skirts,
sand in the eyes—the colour of dirt; employed
by the moon, and doing the night work.
Quivering in the cold, like skeletons out of their
closet—to act as if you don't know their prices.
But it's quite obvious!

The alleyways smell of ****; the club scene of
turning a blind eye to your number of drinks.
Charismatic ill gentleman, with their casual winks;
its the end of the week. As the troublemakers parading
the street.

The performance of the local band, guitar, drums,
keyboard, bass, and of course a mic at hand.
A breathalyzer for an asthma attack, to break the pressure
in awkward conversations with the rude jokes to crack.
Lap dances in the centre room; a long key looking for the
right lock. The goal of every man to score by their crotch.
Lest he has the *****!

Perfumed necks, and high cleavage vests, to show off
some perky *******. Tightly tuned hair—linear
of a piece of linen wrapped in good and neat care.
There's barely enough chairs; so sip a little while
looking around for a seat. And don't be too shy to move
your feet. But watch your step, least not to bump into a stranger,
and disturbing the chaotic night's peace.

Taste a little bit of love; in their cup under the
lasting lust of every fallen star. Take some company
back home, stuffed in a six sitter car.
As we watched a day end—watching another rise by
the time of that great Morningstar. To describe a night
they hope never ends. So by the next week, we'll be doing
it all again.