There’s a bull at the next table drinking tequila.
He belches loudly as he unbuttons his shirt and does a little Elvis twist.
Four women he is constantly flattering
Laugh like a balloon quartet leaking helium.
The barman gives good scowl
Curses something under his breath
That he never says in front of his ole Ma.
Plinky-plonky frisky disco
The bull is up and spinning like a well oiled top.
The floor clears and he channels Travolta.
Polite applause from an old dame shot through with Sangria
Whilst rumblings of discontent echo around the dance floor.
He bellows for more
But the lights are on
The music is off
And everyone’s shifting towards the morning light.
Twenty minutes it takes him to find the door
After tripping and his heavy horn cracking a mirror.
The barman shakes his head and spits
“You stop the barbarity and this is the result!”