Bicycle

Out for the night, she’s dressed to the nines
Boozed up on spirits, and cheap, foreign wines.
She’s out on the pull; got something to prove;
Hoping for stares as she shows off her moves
Her standards are shoddy, so score rate is high:
Grateful for attention from any old guy;
Groping her ass, and trampling her feet;
No conversation, or name when they meet.
In short skirt and heels, make-up on thick.
She runs to the toilet, about to be sick.
 
Now, crippled by heels, stacked crazily high,
Staggering home with some other guy,
Travelling back in a battered old Ford:
The night’s a success: she’s drunk and she’s scored.
Late night kebab and a stranger’s bed,
A heap of clothes she’s already shed.
Too drunk to remember a thing in the morning,
The pain in her head won’t serve as much warning.
Hangovers all just part of the fun;
Comparing with mates to see how much they’ve done
 
A cry for attention, of low self-esteem
One day, I’m sure, she will run out of steam
But, for now, say the people outside,
She’s the town bicycle, everyone’s had a ride.