Pen Fodder

With arms spread wide like Ibiza With my Brighton rock stuck in my throat And throbbing with a pulse For all that glitters as it slithers into serpentine The darker recesses, we waltzed Feeling common as anachronism London, meet me there With my whirlwind of Netherlands We dine upon the night As a whore twice would But more the class as we starve And dining out upon it for a century Of smiles and a million degrades Not too much for a pen fodder in these latter days Completely stultified