Three p.m. is not so bad
office workers back in chairs,
grandmas chasing down a gift.
Three a.m. will be more yeasty;
steroids and adrenalin,
T-shirts packed with muscle
looking for offence,
together with exultant girls
teetering from club to club
and shrieking for their friends,
their skirts a sort of SMS:
the message of their lithe, long legs,
the small shout for attention.
Alongside drinks with fancy names
there'll be the stimulants,
the serious amphetamines,
the dub-dub in the distance,
a single chord's eternal loop
with strobe lights and revolving orb.
‘What y' lookin' at, y' shit-face?
This chick's mine! Eh babe?'
As some three-quarters drunken mate
who fancies his karate
runs round the back to crack an ear.
Bone on bone and then cement —
the kick or two as well
"to fucken finish off".
A few girls whip their mobiles out
to film the souvenir.
Their heroes now must do a runner,
re-group round the corner maybe,
stepping up or stepping down
for one more drink in one more bar
before, with wisdom now prevailing
and rumours of police,
they hail the man from Bangalore
who'll drive them safely home.