The cha cha bar was sliding and we swan across the Scotchman on the rocks
(so many rocks . . . and glass and sand.) In shock we docked in fish head
harbour where the lights were dimmed. (Locked in, we couldn't see a thing .
. . ) The floors was tin, the sky was oil, the air was poisoned lager and
the juke box pumped out schlager because no-one pulled the plugs (so many
plugs . . . and sparks.) The live wives kept us dancing. Dance in brine,
dance in seaweed.
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