The cha cha bar was sliding and we swan across the

Scotchman on the rocks (so many rocks . . .

and glass and sand.) In shock we docked in

fish head harbour where the lights were dimmed.

(Locked in, we couldn't see a thing . . . )

The floors was tin, the sky was oil, the air was

poisoned lager and the juke box pumped out

schlager because no-one pulled the plugs

(so many plugs . . . and sparks.) The live wives kept us dancing.

Dance in brine, dance in seaweed