Old Skool Classic

I wear an invisible i-pod
and sing the wrong words. There's a party
between my ears. You're not invited.

Travolta strutting for the bus. Lay-
deez looking fine this morn. Yo mama,
et cetera. Arthritis be damned.

Cliff ain't driving today and Una's
not asleep upstairs. It's ringtone hell:
Yeah, I'm on the 41, innit.

I used to hate disco, but it's old
skool classic now: Love'n'a synth drum
is hardly Led Zep; yet it rocks, babe.

90p entrance fee to this club.
Oyster, not chicken-in-a-basket.
Take your partners for the jailbait jive.

When my Routemaster became Bendy,
I was reminded of tight trousers:
The myth of length without Viagra.

Spam, spam, spam, Blackberry, spam e-mails
taunt me on the wireless web, worse than
any nagging girlfriend I have known.

I-tunes, isotonic, I before
E; songs of self obsession clutter
my bandwidth. Prick my heart with a PIN.

Somehow, I lost touch; despite checking
out the download chart. I miss singles
and picking fluff from a new stylus.