The corridor was gray and moist
Players walking up and down trying to maintain swagger in exhaustion
A damp towel drops to the long wooden plank bench
Eyecontact fierce, resistance, curiosity
The limousine snarling in the second lane of the porte cocher
Wheezing as it was almost forty years carrying the arrogance
Through the front door cologned and cocky projecting a face
A laugh and a pun later in the back with daquiri
A fat tick behind the ear you could call a brain
Some wouldn't go that far as the engine was still idling
The front entrance full of human worshippers
With numbered shirts draining them of any life purpose
Failing marker pens and low zombie repetitions of their club anthems
Wailing on and humming trying to outdo the idling limousine
Praying and hoping that the tinted window would crack and
A grace-saving hand would emerge to mark their life valid
The sooty engine finally coughed itself quiet
Numbered shirts surge forward in desperation
While inside, aloof and over paid
behind the tinted glass, noithing stirred but the next cocktail
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