Reprobates ‘Kings Of The Side Streets’

it’s the end of the night

and everyone stinks,

the bartender’s intoxicated

the drunks are incapacitated

and some dickhead tripped 

over the power cable 

of the jukebox just before

the outro of Bohemian Rhapsody

kicks in, I’ve only just noticed 

there’s lipstick on the rim of my glass so, 

in theory I’ve been sucking 

on some girls bottom lip 

each time I sipped my IPA,

it tasted like shit anyway,

I was pretty much just using

it as prop so I could sit and watch

the cowboys and cowgirls 

failing miserably at 

synchronized line dancing,

main character syndrome

is playing darts but she’s

as pissed as a fart

and yet to hit the board,

rain man’s perched 

at the end of the bar

counting cocktail sticks

as if he was counting cards,

rumour has it he’s gonna

bring the Vegas strip to its knees, 

it’s so darn tacky and cheap

but we ain’t, we’re the kings 

of the side streets,

the only ‘strip’ we see 

is the removal of some 

$4 hookers panties, 

usually hired for some 

punters birthday,

the only roulette we play

is the odds of one of us driving home

shit arse drunk without 

getting done for DUI,

it’s all beautiful really,

I sit, my elbows on a bar

of polished mahogany,

the windows are blacked out

and the room is dimly lit, 

everyone who frequents this place

has one disease or another,

addiction ain’t so bad

if you stay committed,

be it alcohol or gambling

or an uncontrollable desire

to wrangle cattle in some kind

of twisted equestrian,

it’s all good if you can 

still put a bet on,

sometimes you’ve

got to play your hand,

even though you know 

it could be the death of you