We went east on the Thames

black tunnel of night

into the mysterious pools of night

on the Silver Barracuda

played the songs of Ry Cooder and George Benson

 

then the dancing took over,

YMCA thundered through the salty hull

as yuppies, ad-men

celebrated their new found culture

they paid the pipers,

we played the tunes.

 

The roof opened, underbellies of bridges strode by;

for the musicians below,  one drink allowed.

 

      When we returned, the guests now gone

       with a  gaggle of egos at Charing Cross pier

       the tide was down, gangplank inclined

       to test endurance; we disembarked

       at Wapping new stairs.

In time the hum of invasive volume

disappeared from our weary heads,

while the confluent Thames covered its tracks

with the promise of another day

with the yuppies and ad-men

still at play.