Hey Las Vegas, can nothing save us
from you? Hey bottle-bins and Tesco Metro,
Monday yawnings, flu symptoms, the station pub
at Waterloo. You’re all Las Vegas
and I’m hooked on you.

Hey Las Vegas, you’re a cheeky sausage,
aren’t you? Swapping my lovers while I’m under
the covers watching your tattoo change. Kisses began
in the city of sin – be it York or Durham –
die with you, Las Vegas.

Hey Las Vegas, can a Yorkshire lass match
her drinks with you? I built a bedroom casino,
bet my hotel bible and lost a week. Just one, Las Vegas,
pinch of comatose, powder up the nose
and I’m a queen for you.

Hey Las Vegas, I wore my Elvis costume
for you, a genuflect in Wetherspoons from muscle
cramp: your promise, like a flung bouquet
off Humber Bridge, to break my fall
Las Vegas, like the A63.