Friday Night at Zhivago’s

Stolen from him at the college disco 

under a neon moon and Tainted Love.

The dance floor became a crime scene.

For here was the kiss of the century. 

He was working at the speedway 

with his petrol, his meat pies.

Planning a ruck in the North Bank.

Tomorrow was Lincoln City at home.

But she was the bee's knees of Basildon,

the peroxide princess in waiting. 

Taken by the Ra Ra for a snakebite. 

A cheap Bryan Ferry haircut. 

Over the weekend she faded in Brutus jeans. 

He arrived Levi jacketed, shined up boots.

The staff room tables upturned and bloodied 

come tea break that iced Monday morning.