Elbow deep in murky water

Dried egg stuck to his chin

Trevor the triffic kitchen porter

Plunges more plates with a grin

His daylight hours spent below ground

In the glare of fluorescent strips

He’s worth more at his age than minimum wage

He doesn’t even get tips

He scrapes leftovers from fine bone china

Of sturgeon and chateaubriand

Scours thermidore he couldn’t afford

From heavy stainless steel pans

He may be a slave to the suds and the grease

But he moves with athleticism

His hands maybe cuffed with blue rubber glove

But his shoes are soled with rhythm

 

He says:

“Rhythm is my religion

I breathe in 4/4 time

My heart beats like a temple drum

Just hear my church bells chime

When I’m on the dance floor

I’m in a state of grace

The rhythm wakes me and takes me

To another place.”

 

He peels the latex from his wrists

Shrugs off his uniform

It’s been a cruel and gruelling shift

But there’s plenty of dark before dawn.

He saunters sweetly down the street

Embraces passing friends

Smokes a reefer, pops a pill,

Hopes the night will never end

In the club he’s King of the dance floor

The Saviour of Northern soul

He leaps and spins to confess his sins

And loses himself in it all

He sweats out the grease and detergent

For his nightly reincarnation

Til he’s ready to sleep like a righteous man

And face the next day’s frustration.

 

He says:

“Rhythm is my religion

I’m walking like a dancer

Rhythm is my idiom

It’s got all the answers

I’m breathing bossa nova

It shakes my cares away

Rhythm is my religion…

Now let us pray.