That’s what my friend Soni from Orlando
Likes to call them
‘Legless laggers’
Irish girls with far too much time on their hands
Fake tan too
The wans filled with too much drink
Who now find it hard to walk in a straight line
To think
Minds dissipate
They fumble on down the street
Pulsating blisters on their feet
Owed to high-heels too tiny
Then there’s their inability
To keep up with the pace
It’s not a race!
Or is it?
To make it as far as the next bar
Party hard
Floating around the men who seem to be all too busy getting jarred
The girls shade the pain with false bravado
Falser than their eyelashes even
Men still ogle
At the long legs on show
Legs which struggle ever so
To hold onto their chair
‘Legless laggers’
Is what they are
Come end of night
They can either be seen munching on a breakfast roll outside SPAR
Or knickerless
Tired legs wrapped round some fella in a car

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