The Ritz

It was better
When all you could smell
Was smoke and spilt beer,
Wet mouths and stale clothes
Alive in the fog,

All we get now
Are a thousand spoilt thoughts,

Your hygiene’s a mess
And your arsehole’s on fire.

Poetry.net

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2 Responses to “The Ritz”

  1. A sad, but clerverly composed lament, by a cultivated misanthropist with a sordid past, a sickening presence and a painful future.

  2. The Ritz.
    The frustration.
    Merry Christmas.

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