Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n' Roll. On a bus. With the Watercats!

This one was a bit close to the wire, as I had a working weekend and there's no school today!
Still, I've now got my ticket, second-class admittedly, searching for a title, yet looking forward to the ride ... see you all after bedtime, I expect!

Other bus hedonists here: http://thewatercats.blogspot.com/2010/05/bus-journey-starts-now.html



It’s a hitch-hike from Glastonbury to Pilton,
and a long walk to Worthy Farm

I am solid state: I do not dissolve
or fray around the edges; I contain,
control, withstand pressure on my resolve.

Core immaculate; jump-suit without stain;
white, unusual for a festival
I’ll admit, but this weekend it will not rain.

I came alone, and trust myself equal
to that ahead; my heels, my hair, are high,
I shall tower above, as usual.

Hey Blondie! Wan’ buy some sensi? You try!
Oh, I think. That was drugs. In the daylight.
My totter does not falter, neither I.

The pyramid stage now in my foresight,
I’m not moved. And the big beer-tent is here.
Round the back, I win the barb-wire fence fight.

I’ve got a job. I’m going to sell beer.
Underage, I applied, lied, got the job
and hitched from Bristol searching for some fear.

Ten minutes instruction; I serve the mob,
who leer, and jeer, fall over, try to cheat,
but I am peerless, good. Birth-gifted gob

with wit, charm and smiles and will not be beat,
so the eight-hour shift is painless, and fun,
but now I have no tent, and need must eat.

I’ve had a fair few offers, choose the one
who is oldest, cleanest, and makes me smile,
forgiving his obsession with Neil Young.

We had forty-eight hours, and in that while
I said Yes to Hot Knives, thinking it food
(did not inhale) and walked for miles and miles

saw only Dr John’s set, loud blues lewd,
declined numerous tabs and coloured pills,
worked more shifts, ate unidentified food

drank a little, wore less, sun shone, wind stilled
had Cinnamon Girl sung to me at night,
all night, and kissed and kissed and kissed until

I let him lick me there, whilst in my sight
his friend fought with his sleeping bag, kite high:
he thought it was a shark; could have been right,

it was grey, with fearsome zip teeth. I thought why
has he so lost himself whilst here I am,
a tongue on my clitoris, but my sigh

is not post-orgasmic, and not a sham
to please Neil Young man, just my disbelief,
that even here, so exposed, my program
stays solid state? I’ll seek on for my control thief.