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Since the fabled age of gold,
folk are found where drink is sold.
Humans’ social needs are met
over jars of ‘something wet’;
time and money freely spent
forging bonds of sentiment.
Metro buzz or beauty spot,
lonely light: it matters not
which saloon, shebeen or joint
tipplers of the world appoint
as our favoured watering hole;
one is there to soothe our soul.
At oases, near and far,
desert shack or cocktail bar,
ambience-wise, there’s no choice;
ineluctable, that voice.
Be the hooch refined or rough,
babe, he just can’t get enough,
and he’s never, as we sup,
never gonna give us up.
Who cares what the time of day?
He says, ‘Let the music play
on and on…’ He owns the air.
Wheresoever we repair,
seeking to assuage our thirst,
Barry White has got there first.