Saturday Night Poem by Ben Littlechild

Sunday we awake, ghosts of Saturday night in our heads
The pub, the club, kebab and bed.
This is the routine of Saturday night.

Where some will dance, while others fight.
Some meet love, while others lose sight.
This is the routine of Saturday night.

Intoxicating, but not only drink
For friends and strangers to chat and drink.
A pint of beer, a glass of wine
Equals we are, at the temples of hops and vine.
Rich man, poor man, united in thirst.
But in the morning, a head to be nursed.
Sound and light, too noisy and bright
This is the routine of Saturday night.

Through drunken gaze
Stories to share and amaze
Closing time arrives, and happy faces head for home,
But not before a visit to the vans of meat and chrome
A burger, kebab or chips we have to eat
To soak up the alcohol, and make the morning easier to meet.
This is the routine of Saturday night.

Couples in corners, exploring their newfound bond,
To go home together and embrace in love.
Alcohol fuelled love, never soulful, but plenty of spirit.
Lonely drunks embrace the night, and from love they take flight.
Remembering their youth, and lost chances they might.
Until the drink at home is memories blight.
This is the routine of Saturday night.