saturday
when we went to Burgos
or as we called it, Beergus,
we rampaged the tiny eerport
ohmygohhhhd you should've heerd us.
our incentives weren't linguistic
our clutch of Spanish muy simplistic
our teacher'd been too optimistic
all in all it was a pisstake.
we couldn't give a fig for grammar
subjunctive clauses ever scattered
we were there for things that mattered,
shedding clothes and getting hammered.
absinthe, vodka and tequila
we drank ourselves into sequía
my presence deemed too staid for here
I manned the cameras, held the beer.
forty-strong the party hurdled
derecha y izquierda
past snow-capped trees, down cobbled streets
the town dismissed as pure mierda.
since these were vacaciones
by night classmates grasped cojones
the mornings filled with stories
over black coffee and churros.
my attempts to make things better:
nightly phone calls por tarjeta, and
each gruesome moment fettered,
all sealed up inside a letter.
una chica que se amaba
was the group's big enchilada
enumerated all who'd had her,
was a girlfriend; didn't matter.
at the time it seemed concerning
she could be so undiscerning
I didn't credit drink with blurring
taste and venereal yearning.
but I realise two years later
though I pine for Burgos waiters
Sheffield offers something greater:
esta noche pa' las tetas.
