On kebab-strewn streets in Irish Town,
in the tarnished, varnished bars,
dressed in gear for outdoor sports,
Tommy’s talking rot:
boosting hormone-lowered self-esteem
with someone clearly not.
After boastfully counted sour beers,
above the juke-box euro-pap,
he lies to Sharon, Trace or Leez
with cocktail-smoothed tongue.
Later in the Casements,
emboldened by pastel shots,
capering in the disco
- a new ape’s on the Rock.