A voice in the mirror,
God your good looking.
The Italian chin covered in Brut
with the eyes of an eagle,
faintly ringed from the last shift down the pit
all captured in the energy of youth.
No more graft, the pit wheel has stopped.
This night belongs to him
and some bird is about to get lucky.
But love has many players
its Intoxication is addictive.
Saturday night on the town,
wildlife on display.
From the liar bird to the labra doodle,
each predator drawn to the smell
of Impulse at a pound a bottle
and a faint smell of urine.
The vomit will come later.
Eyes are everywhere as they drink
Vodka from concealed bottles.
Up North we don’t pay their prices
for five finger discount rules the night.
And the back biting begins
look at her mutton dressed as lamb
and Betsy is my best friend.
Even though she’s a slag
for sleeping with Gavin last night.
These herds of Wilder beast
In painted hooves,
displaying their courtship rituals.
Dancing around the sacred handbags,
ready to stampede at
the sound of last orders please.
Glances across the dance floor,
the weak and easy singled out.
The outcome uncertain, the winner
destined for passion, or maybe more.
The loser to sit alone on the bus home.
That miserable face in the window,
that passes by as you cross the road.
Consolation found in a cold kebab
and just one last thought,
As you pass wind beneath the sheets
before that snoring lager sleep,
Mirror, mirror on the wall
You tell lies.
And the pit wheel will turn
the beer will wash the coal.
His Saturday will be earned,
a bird for tonight
and a wife for tomorrow.
Make the most of your luck lad’s
for some lass’s will have none.
This colliery that brings life
that fuels your Northern culture
will also bring up your dead.
© Copyright 2016 steven cooke. All rights reserved.