Saturday night, adrenalin surge, at the thought of coming action,
Venting frustration on others, after a week bored to distraction.
Wet look gel, shines in his hair, though it’s not much more than stubble,
Single earring, twisted nose, looks like a young man built for trouble.
Dark blue shirt, faded jeans, laced up Doc Martin boots,
For the vagaries of fashion, he doesn’t give two hoots.
Walks up the road, rolling shoulders, arrogance personified,
Young guys in hoodies, supposedly tough, see him come and hide.
They recognise the swagger, of a man, that danger follows around,
A man that knows, he is the best, who knows his hunting ground.
He has nothing to prove, people know, that he is fit and
As he strides, up to the square, and enters in the yard.
Tonight’s the night, he can feel the buzz, the rising up elation,
Even though he knows, the night will end, in the police station.
He doesn’t care, he’ll have his fun, first out on the street,
Casts aside any apprehension, about the policemen he may meet.
Now ready for action, pushes open the door, swaggers in the room,
You’re late for briefing, constable, the duty sergeant’s voice does boom!