From The Cellar Door Poem by Bryan Bukowski

Drunken cellars attracting the quirks of the socially shunned
build foundations for the gracious soul of this liquored town.
Sneered by the up-town gloss for it's putrid air, stagnant underfoot,
And stealing each weekend to resolve a dissolving character.

Cast off by the streets' puerile adolescence
this underworld of honest debauchery drowns repute.
A sweltering cradle inciting regression, stale and amused,
plagued by gravity, thrown by the stagger of drunken content.

The anticipation of the world outside makes heads ache,
and pockets begin to feel lighter, both spent and lost.
A cloud of sound gathers, augmented by the babble of deadly egotists
And a drunken haze stews, synonymous with rejected sex.