A silver orchard of apple-macs sat on laps,
The habitat of avid chats for gossip girls who perch in circles
To whisper the graphic acts of one friends
Post-Willow ‘massive lapse’ in a flat in Halifax.
The section of key texts steadily collects its fines
Will lend for a second, and leave you in debt for life.
The mouth of ‘intelligent return’ stays open extra wide
Feeding on battered books, shoved upon its black tongue.
Spitting out receipts that no one reads or keeps.
Clotted with debates of STOPPED and SPOTTED
One says its not a joke, the other jotted notes of besotted blokes
Who through cyberspace could hide their face
And write their poetically finest phrase like..
“Oi your well fit”
A place where seats are lost,
If you rest on your laurels
And anything goes
For as everything shows,
There’s no such thing as JB Morals.