Hot Times

The weather is no better down the street,
Where there were celebrations and delight
As long as the police kept out of sight.
It's raining champagne corks, on the elite
As on the poor, and everybody's feet
Are sore from conga overload tonight.
Our makeshift shoes are too tight – don't fit right –
And I took pills: every four hours, repeat.

Under the weather, I have shot my bolt,
Careening madly through the wine and song
That filled the air until it sounded wrong,
Electric surges ending with a jolt.
I'm taking off my sweater, and I'll moult
If this ungodly heat goes on too long.