by Nick Gisburne
A dozen painted bodies take the stage
A strange, grotesque, illicit, midnight show
The stink of sweat, arousal cut with rage
Contaminates the fevered crowds below
The tickets, always cheap, attract the scum
No welcome waits the rich, the connoisseur
Dilapidated, buried in a slum
Inside, a tension thick enough to stir
Defective dancers, rejects from the pile
Perform a dismal cabaret of shame
The jazz is poor, the striptease without style
But no one can be sorry that they came
A cauldron of emotion, strictly banned
The midnight show is always in demand
