Cursing crimson walls
A thousand or so souls on the floor
Shouldering away through strobe and intoxicated
Having berated himself in the hall
And not for the last time
There's never a last time
He's waiting again for the inevitable flash of recognition
Yelling in casual tones
I'll just go and say hello
Strange things these obligations
Strange things these invitations
It's never the last time, is it?
From what can you take your leave
If the senses have been smashed to smithereens?
He'll have to cop this sweet
Although there is nothing sweet about it
Nothing at all