Waiting for Waterloo

It is here I sit too early for my train so forced to kick back at the ‘reef café bar’,

I know it’s a reef for there is a fish tank, fishes dream, encased in an Ikea themed block of green and mean wood, as if to illustrate a real sea bed.

POW-WOW! You fooled me!

Bushy bum watcher is now wearing a tux, he emerged from the loo, a poor mans James Pond.

The art deco astounds me, when did we become Habitat cloned whores?

There rests a girl, dressed painfully in piercings, she looks young and unhappy.

I put it down to waterloo.

Beg to differ if you dare but might I remind you of the bright wacky chairs,

spineless and clashing with the city boys suits and ties,

men appear to dress the same, checkered warfare.

Girls try harder to be noticed. Not all. Only few. The beer has got me.

Phew.

Urine pays its ticket, ride on. WATER MY LOO!

If these walls could talk they’d say “ARRRGHH! MY HEAD HURTS!”

March on Mahoney. Stick her like glue. Lager felt and fuzzy beat and tired.

Weighing muff awaits my Essex capades to fertilise its collapsed womb.

Port-a-loo station should stop running and running and dashing.

Train waits for no man.

Moody lighting to fade.

Slip away.

Exit to ska-punk.

Knees up, knees up.