Any soap for this world

Saturday day night sights
Washed away with a pulling of a plug chain
And Sunday remains squeaky clean

Do Saturday night sights and society’s dreams
Flow together down the drain
With the kebabs
Chips
Ketchup dips and lost handbags

romance of
stags rutting for there slag’s
With the kicking punch of a stab
asking
Do you know who I am?

vessels bent double
by what they once contained
jewels left scattered
the town left splattered
and the streets weeper cry’s in vain