I Must Be Getting Old (Spent at Home Instead of Roaming the Wild Streets)

Outside the night grows wild
Summertime Friday
Brighton at its very worst
As hen parties carry phallas they can only dream of
Through the streets
Whilst the young do their thing, often drunk
Under some kind of heavy medication
Acting cool but as yet unaware that can't happen
For at least a few more years.

After six hours at the coalface of work
The dreaded shop that has been home for ten, yes
TEN long years down the same damn shop,
All those words inspired by my loathing of that place,
Serving all manner of human detritous their endless
Bottles of Proseco, super-strength cider and those
Poseur craft beers to all those with their perfectly
Crafted beards has left me spent.

So tonight I walk past my favourite bar
Where my favourite DJ, besides my good self,
Is playing some shacking tunes for tonight
I just dream of being alone. Letting what little
Of my hair I have left down as I sit contemplating
Jazz again over a triple bonus of bourbon, beer
And the forever ubiquitous glory of the weed.