Cambridge Nightlife

Everyone’s looking for anyone
but none of them know no one.
Queuing in the cold
hasn’t deterred idiots
from drinking multicoloured,
clear glassed spirits.
Toilet lines that drag out to the bar
are a sign to wee somewhere else, someplace far;
but because there’s that girl you like
waiting for the cubicle without a light,
means we have to stay put with
our feet stuck, and fused
to another dance floor’s
confused groove.

The DJ swings merrily
to another over produced
boring melody.
Bouncers sit and watch,
check out the ladies
wearing nothing but crotch.
The bartender battles with noise,
disrupted conversation from
drunk knitwear boys.
Close down the joint
and recline with a book.

There, chaos is but fiction,
not a whole load of
club scene drama
and throw away diction,
costing six quid a time
in order to dance
with no reason or rhyme.