SHADOW SHOT SUNDAY
We sit here idly in the sun but you couldn't say we're shirkers.
We're the furniture equivilent of what are called shift-workers.
Our lives may seem so easy as we gaze out at the sea;
Nobody's sitting on us; we feel all calm and free.
But, come the setting of the sun and the opening of the bar,
Ours will be a very different sort of life, by far.
Paunchy men, with bellies, will slide up on our seats,
Rather drunk and having eaten snack-food that repeats!
And silly girls with alcohol, as brainless as a feather,
Will lurch and giggle up to us and spill stuff on our leather!
Then somebody will pick a fight, lifting one seat by a leg,
Ready to hit a bosom friend, or at least to make him beg!
The music will blare-out constantly, the laughter will be insane!
Someone will have to lurch outside and vomit in the drain!
They wont go home till morning! And we'll be quite done-in
By the shouting and the singing and the drinking and the din!
Someone will wipe us over, so at least we'll feel renewed,
When they rub off all the finger-marks and bits of sticky food.
Now we're dreaming through the afternoon, and we're feeling almost blessed.
Don't disturb our siesta!
I think we deserve a rest!
Saturday Night Fever here: