Sunday, August 7, 2011

A Night on The Town - first draft

Hey baby--don’t just stand there--got a light?
My name is Drama--I’m your date tonight.
Get all dolled up--you’re coming out with me
Where you’ll get tongue-kissed by catastrophe.

Don’t even try to tell me you won’t play--
You’ll take the weather personally, okay?
It’s just the thing to trash your family name:
A self-destructive crapgasm! You game?

And yes, you will be picking fights tonight,
So count your teeth and buckle up real tight.
Fisticuffs? Knife fights? Drag races? Your pick.
You won’t be getting home until you’re sick.

I’ll make sure Trouble snuggles in your lap
And cripples you worse than a spinal tap.
Mayhem, misunderstanding, the absurd--
I can do bloodshed too--just say the word.

For punishment tonight, we’ll both be gluttons.
By midnight I’ll have pushed all of your buttons--
The easy ones to reach, the well-protected,
And one or two you thought were disconnected.

Put on that Kevlar vest; take a deep breath--
Everything from now on is life or death.
Tonight you’ll redefine debauchery,
So hit the gas and aim right at that tree.

We’ll start off slow with drinks and appetizers
And then I’ll throw in one or two surprises--
A waiter who will double-charge your drinks;
A bartender who speaks before he thinks;

The girl who called an hour ago--the one
Who scores a hundred on sheer facial stun
And had a standing date with you to go
To dinner, then that sold-out Broadway show--

The one your heart’s a sucker for -- who said
She felt so sick she thought that she was dead
And had to spend tonight under the covers?
You’ll see her hip-grinding one of her lovers

Outside an East Side club at half-past seven--
A guy who makes King Kong look four-eleven--
A Rugby player with two trees for legs
And a six-pack as hard as Guinness kegs.

And when you say, “Hey honey--how’s the fever?”
And call her names like skank, bitch and deceiver
For sucking spittle with a pea-brained Brit,
The git she’s with will use all of his wit

To cry, “Oi--Septic!” (as in septic tank,
A term that’s Cockney rhyming slang for Yank)
And with a cheery “Compliments of Mersey!”
He’ll kick your sorry ass from here to Jersey.

That’s just the prologue to the evening’s fun.
The starting pistol, not the party gun.
Everything after that will be as manic
As the last hour of RMS Titanic.

Each drink tonight will help to make you brave
Enough to reach for what you fear to crave--
And then that one drink more will tip you over
Into the cesspool of the devil’s clover.

And as you ride that queasy carousel,
You’ll meet and greet the sweetest scum of hell:
Hit-men and hookers, liars, politicians,
Ex-convicts, dope fiends, critics and musicians.

Whispers that lead to miscommunication,
Vanities punctured by humiliation--
Everything on the menu is your fault:
Your life’s the wound; tonight will be the salt.

Loud conversations, fueled by shots of Jäger
And wilder than the north face of the Eiger,
Will lead to insults, challenges, and blows
And (if you’re lucky) an unbroken nose.

You’ll push the envelope until it breaks,
Eat Fugu while you pound down Rattlesnakes,
Pick fights with cops and snarl at maitre d’s,
Blitzkrieg the bars like little Germanys,

Steal risky kisses and get roundly slapped,
Make perfect plans and watch them all get scrapped,
Say the wrong thing to someone who could like you,
Make the wrong pass at someone who will strike you.

You’ll compliment a cutie on her boa
And she’ll blow up at you like Krakatoa--
Get hit on by the girlfriend of a mobster
Who’ll be the boiling water to your lobster--

Go to a play and groan, complain and cough--
Call up your exes, tell ‘em to eff off--
Buy teenage girls martinis and car bombs--
Get chased by their incensed, indignant moms--

Stiff waiters every time you order meals
And tweak Propriety until she squeals,
Then take the piss at every traffic light--
In other words, a normal Friday night.

So take my hand, my love, and take the plunge
I’ll squeeze the goodness from you like a sponge.
Suit up, get in that ring, and take a dive--
You need to feel like death to feel alive.

And when you find yourself succumbing to
The tempting fruit of sin’s hullabaloo,
Just keep in mind that, when the night is through,
The fun was all on me; the tab’s on you.

Copyright 2011 Matthew J Wells

No comments: