Down icy glass cliffs
Tread Poseidon's wayward souls
Rest on dampened coast
"Is there any way you could please not rip up my beermats?" Asked James, politely.
"Ah shit." Replied Adam, sweeping the torn debris into a manageable pile of concentrated mess.
"I don't really see the point of beermats to be honest mate." - He continued in a less than apologetic manner.
"Well the basic premiss of them is that you don't fuck up my tables."
"Ah, lesson learned."
Adam turned to the table behind him and addressed the young couple, both sporting tight jeans and expensive haircuts.
"Excuse me, can I have your beermats?" He enquired.
There was no response, but as drinks lay bathing in pooled condensation while coasters had been swept to one side in a display of abject disregard, Adam helped himself to both.
"You shouldn't leave your drinks like that." He added.
"Fucks up the table."
James conceded a look of hopelessness before attending to his drink, now perched on cardboard plinth.
"I've only got about 10 more minutes mate." He ascribed to Adam, who was wiping a mixture of watery residue and rolling tobacco from the table.
"No worries mate."
"I'mma roll a cigarette before I get back to work though."
James then effected towards a packet of Golden Virginia that was half stuck to the once pluvious table. Adam unravelled his discarded jacket to retrieve a worn packet of Drum in union with James.
"You got any Rizla's mate?"
"Aye." Replied James.
The papers in question lay face down on the table and as James unstuck the packet, sodden Rizla remained clinging to aqueous tabletop in mute defiance, a concertina of dismayed skins exploded in outward connection between the two.
"Ah fuckbandits."
Great as always Jow, I found it very amusing, and also very touching!
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