It was whilst having a beer or three
that I heard them say that
that club across the way
smelled of chlamydia.
And I thought it no more than
a witty remark
until their own stench permeated
From the window, the street sign, aptly
branded out of cold metal
spelled, ‘Love Street.’
Irony lives here, I remember thinking.
The bottom of my glass was visible
as I supped.
The Last Supper. Jesus. That was the
last one, I swear.
I thought about telling them, yelling,
”Hey – you were around in the
Or, ”You can’t kid a kidder!” but I’d
had one too many and this was not
about me. Or them. Or anyone.
That girl that they’re pawing over
a slut; she’ll be fucked
from pillar to post.
Well, good on you, girl. Wait. Did I just
you three. And not in a good way.
Who am I?
Oh, just listening in,
Judging you, Judging them.