Drunken, excitable stranger,
We met in the light of the fridge.
You had toast, and you wanted some butter,
Said you only needed a smidge.
The hours wear on and you chatter,
You paint an inch thick as you sing,
Bottle-tanned, smooth-skinned and fleshbare,
To attract what the evening may bring.
Elated, you tumble to taxi,
To the buzz of the evening you charge,
And all that is left is my memory of you,
And the crumbs that you left in the marge.
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