She’s on the Ching Again

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.