At the Paranoia Poetry Club

At the Paranoia Poetry Club They all give thanks For the NHS and their Cheap Prescription tranqs. The recovering drunk, The failed suicide  Both sit together Side by side by side Waiting for the mic To pour into the air Their personal tales  Of angst and despair. I sat there, of, relatively, Quiet contented mind With no social ills Or axes to grind, Listened until I couldn’t Take it anymore And at the first opportunity Escaped through the door To eagerly drink A cold pint of porter The wonderful taste  Of real Liffey water. My regular attendance Really could I think Drive me right back  To excessive drink. I don’t know how many  Such clubs exist in this land But I’m sure there’s a case  For having them all banned. Paranoia Poetry Clubs Can drive a body to despair Just by the process of Sitting and listening there.