Still there, those old beasts

at the watering hole

wallowing in sentiment

thin skinned

thickset

brass necks.

 

Those were the days my friend

we thought they'd never end

but they 'ad to

balaclavas and sawn offs.

 

The barmen keep their distance

behind optics,

behind Victorian mirrors

they know these faces

know that tales will be told

egos massaged

 

adrenalin junkies

on cardiac medication.

 

The peripheral skirts

do their own gathering

sat down in circles

in leopard skins, scented plumage

lacing their drinks with

lost solace at the waterhole.

Hardly sensed, at best ignored

they will always stand by their men

when they do time

and always did

 

and paid and still pay a heavy price

in the markets of the east.