Gigour Mortis

The disallowed and the disaffected,
In a pub that smells of disinfectant,
Disappointment and disarray,
As the dishcloth dystopian cabaret,
Mount the stage and discharge,
A dearth of dismal dirges,
Dispelling any kindly urges of applause,
Or pause, for any thoughts on art,

Not so smart,
This dandy, Disney, death metal display,
A distinctly down number,
And a slow slow sway,
This is Friday,
And we’re in this encasement of a basement,
Listening to Dumbo the disquiet arrangement,
I’m not even a goth and I don’t drink beer,
A question, a thought,
Why am I here?
Shuffling in the downstairs of a blue strobe,
Dilapidated death trap,

We’ve nothing to say,
But when we do we shout,
The toilets don’t lock,
And when they do you can’t get out,
Don’t touch the doorman,
I think he’s got scabies,
Wade through bog water to get to the ladies,

I’m guessin’ it’s distressing,
Dishing out drinks in this dive,
In this honeyless hive,
Of worker fleas,
Of printed tees,
That don’t make sense,
But smell of cheese,

Leave your dignity at the door,
Down twelve Daniel’s,
And lie on the floor,
Who needs rugs,
With cliental décor?

The guy over there has met his maker,
Face still clinging to the flock skull paper,

The disaffected, the misdirected,
The common nightly binge collective,
Those disposed to excessive drinking,
Those devoid of critical thinking,
The disinfected, the disallowed,
So help me God,
This is my crowd.


About Gwen and Elinor

Two bloging buddies who love tea and biscuits.
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