That’s what they called it, happy happy, the alcoholic interludes
Tainted with nicotine delights, the pseudo-fiesta fares foraged from
The Gardens of Others, cooked over fires burning from sinful woods
Stolen – no – taken, from the old woman who died of a weak lung
Because they poisoned the country air with their happy happy.
They had lights that ran from the roof to the ground, like the rats
That infested the debris from their food and vomit, yet the decor
Was impressive, garish without pretense of poverty, tasteless ersatz
Of glittering plastic and foil, and wide flat screen television interior
Lighting terrifying the fireflies that hoped to find a mate in the night.
And there was music, and singing, such frightful singing that struck
The bitches to abort, microphonic singing that confused the birds
To migrate, heroic singing applauded by the explosive cough
Of tuberculosic air bags and sticky pipes, rotten teeth, swollen gums
And all the time in the world to dye their hairs down to the roots.
Why not indeed, after many years of servitude and petty larceny
Rewarded by an old age pension, why not happy happy indeed
After a trail of disposable wives and the last to keep for the laundry
Happy happy not only for oneself but also for those in great need
Of alcohol in their blood, smoke in their lungs and a dildo in their ears!