It’s night time, and they’re nosy, or was it hyper-loud, at the table right in front of you, banter it travels, travels and tickles the nose.
Who told them, or was it taught them, how to be so bold, how to kiss the spirit of the age, right on its hairy lips, then slide the magic bill, right where the money goes?
Were they the same ghosts, who rented a tapas plate and sat it there out in the desert, charging the ants to carry a skyscraper, back to the dens, back where the honey gets made?
Me and my paintbrush, we are timid as wildflowers, shy as old goats, who need food in their pails.
The light it hits the tall walls, dancing on the mirror-folk, soliciting no backbone. The light is the wrong sort, but glows with all the limey green. Glows like every Scotsman, who wears a kiln and not a kilt.