What goes on behind those black doors on Midland road?
A faint boom and bass,
The song of licentiousness.
Heavy girls bare their breasts,
Young professionals drink and de-stress.
Meanwhile next door,
An old lady tries to go to bed.
She thinks of her youth and dead husband.
She scuffles round a box of memories,
And finds and old suede notebook,
She reads a poem she wrote forty years ago:
“Bristol’s young men have come to play again,
To have their foolish hearts massaged.
Don’t they know, one woman is a fountain,
A dozen is a mirage.”