The daily grind of the
Hangover bus journey
To the daily grind of
And the days continue to roll and turn
Like massage parlour knuckles
Soothing the tax man’s greed
And you land at the end of the week
And you breathe
And you send him a kiss
As you exchange your hard-earned
For a pint of bliss.
Then the darkness creeps in and
Fills your glass
And the last of the stress is
When a shadow falls across your fish bowl-
A swaying stranger,
Modelling that ‘just met’ glow,
Inviting himself to rant and moan,
Spilling his frothing bitter on your phone.
Now this is no time
For bullshit strangers
To discuss leeching politics
Or screeching prisoners
Or flooding foundations
Or collapsing nuclear stations.
THIS is the time to get the drinks in
Get lost in your gin
Get lost in the screaming din
Of the drunken proletariat.
THIS is the Friday lock-in.
You turn to the bullshit stranger,
His loose and cocky repartee
Making your tongue curl and your skin crawl
And you’re drenched in the monotonous sound
That drowns the free-thinking thoughts you’d found.
Yet still he persists
With his bullshit cadence,
Falling on ears of imposed patience
Except your feet are itching
Your wallet burning
And what you really want to do
Is buy a kebab
And skip in your socks
Steal a traffic cone
And laugh at the moon
Raising a hip flask salute
To the whistle of diminishing sirens
Flinging your pissed-up melody
At the silent trees.
But you’re stuck in your chair
With some bullshit stranger
His excitable spit on your face, in your hair,
And you know that THIS is not the time.
So you stand, defiantly, decisively,
Ready to fling him sidewardly,
But before you speak
There’s the funniest bundle
A delightfully incongruous creature
Balanced on the shoulder of the
Its furry paws
JUST at the tips of his ignorant ears
And its bobbing tail
Taps his designer collar
And its bright round eyes
Catch your own and wink.
THIS is the time to declare THANK FUCK FOR THE FLUFFY BUNNY.