Swift smoke is pushed from a dozen sweating mouths
Muttering under the thud of Techno
Each set of lips curled around the hose of imported Hookah
Tan men under huge beards complain about piss poor American Shisha,
Made entirely in China.
The mood lighting it set by the slow burn of black embers
Reflecting amber heat on to Coal rimmed eyes.
Sitting atop their thrones as blind kings over addict minions
In this room I find myself feeling small, and smiling
Because my head is racing to get one more word in edge-wise to the stunning ,
Desert jewel of a waitress.
Shisha smoke was definitely a good color on her.