Half Term in Funky Town

In the bars of Fuengirola,
by the sad and drab marina,
Drunk and Judy drink some cocktails,
fight each other to a standstill.
See the dreaded Stagger Parties,
puking, spewing Stagger Parties.
See the bridegrooms dressed as ladies
fall in gutters by the discos.
There are expats fiercely tutting,
forgetting their own days of rutting.
Policemen shrug and tap their temples
awaiting coming of hen-parties,
scarcely standing drunk hen-parties,
all disguised as tarts and vicars,
some foregoing any knickers,
braving colder Spanish evenings,
spending winter's meagre savings,
hoping for a lissome lover,
any kind of lissome lover.
Under neon, bleaching lighting,
16 year olds come out fighting,
lose their wallets in the melee.
The local jail is not so jolly.
By the bars of Fuengirola,
near the sad and drab marina,
Joan and Darby share a teapot,
share the quiet of the morning,
thinking nothing ever happens,
wishing something ever happened.