The Seaside Cafe

Down the cliff path, overgrown,
Around the lawns rarely mown,
Towards a gold globe on top of the bandstand,
Victorian echoes of sweet England

Summer sweat and old people talking,
Prodigious farts and tramps hawking,
Scruffy young men eat crisps and sweets,
Their world is now, they talk in tweets

A social addict stares at the weary,
His stories endless and breath beery,
An ancient lady sips her tea,
She’ll still be there at half past three

The expensive new door traps another child,
Operation unfathomable, a mother goes wild,
Dogs bark at a man with dropped trousers,
While absent parents ignore kids on brousers,

Silent couples watch those with loud voices,
They mingle together as a bingo winner rejoices,
Curling sandwiches vie with cakes,
But it’s the backs of necks which the sun bakes

It’s winter now, and a gale is blowing,
The room is empty, high tide flowing,
Staff still have a friendly word,
But in the toilet – floats a lonely turd

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