This place is filling up with people,
as the workers settle into their chairs,
I have been sitting here for hours,
smoking with the 'barely-there's'.

We all shuffle to the bar-maid,
we mumble concedings for a drink.
We come to escape the front-lawn shepherds,
we come to avoid the kitchen sink.

You must wear your badge of honour,
the pills you take when you lie down,
till then you'll write another poem,
before heading off into town.

This is not what I imagined,
after the bruising years of school.
I can't drive off into Atlantis,
if I'll drown in a bathing pool.

Oh, when did this high turn to torment,
and when did truth fall to mystery?
When will my words turn to cliché,
and when will you remain, my history?