To all the late-night dancers at the Thompson’s Arms
—
She’s on the Ching again, babe,
buzzing alone on the dancefloor
where she loves us all like chosen family.
Sweat glittering like tinsel,
she’s Sylvester, a mirrorball,
in her own little world with the feelings inside her.
She’s Scouse-soused tonight,
her voice electric blue flight,
her eyes twinklin’ stars of dew in the limelight.
Energised on gossip,
her bald head’s a piston,
her gob, a serenade that echoes under rigging.
Lavender and golden,
we’ve all gotta wind it,
all gotta be her tonight; she has spoken.
With stories to regale yer,
with ’er hands, she’s conductor,
and she’s vibin’ to feel yer, yer feel me? Yer feel her.