The Pub Toilet

This poem is about the two pubs where I worked during my years at university. It describes what went on in these rough drinking dens, and what I witnessed, not what I did! However, it is a rude, vulgar poem and so my family may want to give it a miss! You have been warned mother!

The Pub Toilet.

Coke snorted, pills popped, joints rolled,
Coins dropped,
Condoms in the toilet bowl.
Sticky floor mopped with piss,
Urinals adorned with fag butts,
A pimply teen sneaks in a mag
And looks at the sluts.

Thew gambler, the drunkard,
The unemplyed, the old and the bored,
The students and the dealers
Drink pint after pint,
Night after night.
They have all placed their arses
On the cold plastic that is never cleaned,
And underneath the johnny machine
Are hardened chunks of collective vomit.

As the crowds pour in and drink
With greed, not thirst,
Local feuds burst, and things are measured
As only best or worst,
And as the men, side by side converse,
They bitch more than housewives at teatime,
And blind eyes are turned to this tiled office
Of small crime.

Weekends mean profits and bad dancing, and
Cloned stories echo of macho
Conquests to be, and conquests had,
Told by every dashing lad,
Who considers himself a bit of a cad.

There are locked cubicles for cocaine and fucking,
Once someone cooked up some heroin
In a MilkyBar wrapper,
And often there´s poo outside of the crapper.
The graffitti is crude, predictable shite,
You can see if Dazzer, or Dust was here last night.

The odour lingers on your fingers, a veneer
On the cracked tiles, polluting your nostrils,
As you stand with your cock out,
Looking straight down.
This is where I work.