Derwent Porter

A poem by

Photo Credit: Kate Mitchell

Illustration: Kate Mitchell

I’ll sing of a hellish realm where none were free:
All held within the shackles of torment.
It was in October at CabaretD.

Such demonistic dancing, underwent:
Fire-bound fiends chanting clueless ditties:
I saw the convulsive clamour of Derwent.

It was the surest Sodom: a sinning city,
Lad and lass held hung with horniness.
“I love you Derwent!” Well, hell hath no pity,

On youths yearning for happiness. I confess:
They spend the last of all their student loans,
Making a tit of themselves whilst in a dress.

O, scenes otherworldly! Burn, burn in brimstone!
And worst of all is late at night when they
For a spare key-card ask me, with discordant tones.

Yet late at night, after this spectral soirée,
I go home to my gentle, caring daughter.
I mourn this world, so ghastly and in such decay,
And wonder why I am a Derwent porter.

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