Club poetryMature

Pre-drinks start at eight. The
Taste of someone else's cheap rum and
Cheaper own brand Cola run
Down my throat.

Down down down, it's a burning ring of
Truly disgusting alcohol. Never have I
Ever seen a cocktail more foul topped off with
The Shiraz from two weeks ago. Vinegar.

Dancing shoes made for murder, a
Stiletto through your heart, six
Inches deep in your memory.
But God aren't they beautiful.

Str obe ligh ting. Nothing but the
Bass bass bass bass and
Drop. Screams the beast. It howls a
Hundred and twenty decibels of subwoofer.

Dancing in the moonlight, everybody's
Disappointed or too drunk to care; mazeltov.
Now I'm here laying on my back saying
Please, please, please, please, please, write me another stanza.

The End

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