Scorched for hours, the hooligan has trawled in the night.
Crimson painted, bloody from the travail is the sky.
The ruckus and the rumpus, the clamour and the blare,
From a thousand noises now transposed to the cacophony of a tavern
Subside the frayed minds and bodies in a Bloody Mary.
From the labour of a day now there is respite.

Set beneath an arc, alit some splinters keep the fire.
The baton has changed hands in the bleak of night.
My appointment sees it bright, the rumble is quieter,
But I let it not die.

In a while the hooligan will be back and baton shall too go back.
And then again when the barmaid disciplines the rummy,
I shall, here, by the arc keep the chimes.
And again love the night.