Broad St.

These broad shoulders carry the inflated chested, nocturnal self invested. 

Gentry and femininity, chasing liquid anonymity, 

Just another night at the races, so many faces, shinny shoes and smart laces, 

Friendly banter, it's not racist


Don't worry I'll get this round, let's get ready to rumble, 11 more before your down, 

Put that shit week behind you and wash away that frown, 

And excuse me mate we'll have a few more shots, G

Get them down and move on there's lots of hot spots


Of course fella, take a look at my licence, 

Just here to break bread, no intention of violence, 

You won't be hereat the end of the night 

Knock together a few heads, bang down a few have a laugh with you, get mashed up pulled up feel up and hurl up, 


Then cash out hang about with these louts, 

Nothing wrong with a sing a shout, 

A call out to Kolo and YaYa, screeching Will Griggs on Fire, 

humming Sinatra, having it my way, 

nothing wrong with a night out I say


Now Where did I check my coat, 

Or did I leave it with the bloke, 

I'll find it in a minute this tune gets me stoked, 

full throttle and mind absent, 

Must have been that last lot of absinthe, 

But light a fag and take a drag, 

Hold the urge to purge fighting sensory lag 


Pushing through the sea of Calvin clones, the skimpy darlings interested in their phones

I might wonder over to Brindley place, 

I fancy a slim companion dressed up in something lace, with a 20 inch waist, and half decent face as long as she's up for a cuddle back mine or her place


So let's move up a gear engage the clutch, 

Cut my brakes this ones for the Dutch,

I'm sorry to bother you my dear, 

I'd just like a quick whisper in your ear 

- and a brush of your thigh, 

I think you have such pretty eyes,

Let me take you to the bar, what can I buy?

Leave you friends at the table and kiss them goodnight


Tell me what you do for a living, 

Tell about the bitch at work and all the chat she's been giving, 

All saint and no sinner, 

Never enough home cooked dinners

Funny you only seem to find dickheads 

Too much sneaking from behind bins and hotel beds, 


Quick trip to the gents, 

Little splash of water and return to sense, 

Drop a quid in the dish for a dose of store bought scents, 

Class by the glass, confidence for rent, 

Happiness by the pound, but you'll find misery for mere pence


Stare in the mirror - 

focus on the moment, 

Tomorrow exists for my atonement, 

I'll return to the mainland and tackle the Solent, 

But until the sun begins to rise, I'll just fit in with these guys and gals, 

Make my acquaintances, befriend a few pals


Staggering from door to door, 

Chip shops and concrete floor, 

More rot for the core,

Before a black cab curtain call


But that's an evenings entertainment,

No offence intended and no harm meant, 

Tomorrow's a distant reality, 

And the allegations of tonight typical fallacy 


Renting joy, the cheap booze and the easy lay, 

Push through the 9-5, I'll see you again Friday. 


- Michael Delaney