Guiris

At The Black Horse and The Frog and Toad,
at either end of the Malaga Road,
Guiris drink, and savour whines.

They’re short of money and short of breath,
dancing along to a sunlit-death,
Guiris think the pueblo smiles

at dancing in a drunken daze,
shouting at villagers’ peculiar ways.
Guiris wink at vacant girls.

On dark streets, in narrow alleys,
on brown-scorched hills, in dried-up valleys
Guiris shrink from rarer birds.

At liquid lunch or dinner time,
discussing an expat's latest crime,
Guiris sink in damning words.

At The Frog and Toad and the Black Horse,
between the meat and the dessert course,
Guiris blink at cast-off pearls.