The Spectator

I can sniff it off the breeze

The smell of sweat, grime and grease.

There are other, kinder, scents too

Smells like home, with you.

I can see it from my window

The sunlight performing it's daily decrescendo

As the shadows recede, the revelry starts

Until the barmaid let's out 2 quivering farts.

I can hear the sounds that are descriptive of labour

Just testosterone-filled men trying to win the favour

Of their respective damsel, all petite and proper

Coming back home with wage-lined pockets, they saunter.

I can feel the cold through my wollen-clad skin

Despite all our feeble attempts, Mother Nature's win.

As the haughty titans of commerce

We frequently hear "There's nobody worse"

I can taste the crisp hot spice

Remnants of our history and culture of the wise

My senses on the brink of being overwhelmed

I go back to sleep and become the ideal citizen hence.