It’s coming up to 5 minutes past 3
And before us all the best holligan repelling bars
Are coming under lock down in front of our very eyes
My platoon has no choice but patrol the slums
The kind of bar filled with seedy salary man
The ones who turn a blind eye to personal boundaries
The kind of gross specimen I find side by side with my rendezvous
With a sigh I walk on over to be introduced

You then turn in my general direction
Tilt your head like you would a toddler
Carrying the burden of a hastily cast, plaster cast
And put on the pout on your lips
At the news of my autistic blood
You tell me how your so sorry
How that’s such a shame for me to be this way
How I’ve roll the dice and got snake eyes

I find that funny you would talk to me that way
Like a old fisherman’s pup, missing a hind leg
Because your not to know this, but me and your ex lady
The one you’ve been awkwardly gyrating on the dancefloor
Receiving the same reactions as an electric bill in the mail
Yeah we’ve been at it for the last month
You make comments about I can’t do things like the normies
Oh she doesn’t seem to think so not at all
Reading back the reviews it’s clear I’ve surpassed you
No I might not be the talkative lad at bars
Sometimes the washing up can be confusing
But is that really a price to pay for what I gain?
You won’t admit it but you’d kill to be me right now

*Written For National Poetry Month – 28/30*