Our Grouter a lad of commendable needs
But with little left else to
commend him
Was stopped at the door by a man
with a stare
Made stern by eye-weights at the
gym
A man whose wit came not from a
book
But impressed on his brain by a
fist
Who cared not at all for the needs
of our lad
For a drink, and a dance, and a
tryst
A man who guarded this door by the
club
Against any that might care to
enter
A man with a talent for reaching
down throats
And returning with lungs and
placenta
A man who on seeing our brave hero
Grouter
Round the door that remained quite
ajar
A jar that had once contained
pickles and piss
Asked if Grouter had truly come
far?
He had, and he said, describing his
journey
His cunning, his vim, and his
daring
Of the trials overcome and of villainy
foiled
Of the dangers beyond which was his
caring
The doorman on hearing and quite
clearly rapt
Wrapped a hand to his cabbage-like
ear
To better to hear of our Grouter’s
tall tale
And at whose conclusion he let out
a cheer
Yet the doorman remaining ever true
to his nature
And as sweet as cream-curdled éclair
Decided that the lout who had
travelled so far
Had better just fuck off right back
there
The Grouter retreated past a line
and to jeers
From Kylies, and Kayleighs, and
Katies
Who dressed all uniquely and all
just the same
Had dressed like their mums in the
80s
Not put out by their hair he sought
in the line
One whose late husband had been
lost in the Indo...
...China
To whom he added an ‘n’, with a
flick of his pen
And with a wink then climbed in
through the window
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