Wally’s World is a wonder of the art,
its ingenuity held together with scaffold
and cable, pins and paint. We can erect this show
in fifteen minutes: homecrafted lightboxes,
secondhand strobes, the decks, the great front
board, with Wally’s World written in red
across its length. And we are set.

Afternoon or evening, birthday or wedding
we pack halls across East Kent with our rhythm,
entertaining spruced, scented hordes with disco
and soul, with two-tone and motown. You start
on the light and bitter, to oil your joints.
I start with a shandy and a shaking fit,
knowing the hall will watch me play, waiting
until the alcohol kicks in and the chat gears up.

You work the front: kiss bride or birthday girl.
Assess your audience, drink, then dance. Snake
your neck chain across your chest. Whip
your hips tight in their jeans. Swing. Pick
the lady. Pounce. I play. Professional
in my intros, my dedications. Master
of the microphone. Devil of the decks.