Tuesday, February 27, 2018
A Few Drinks And We're All Poets
We'll head out, you and me, have a pint, or
Maybe three, a cool thin ale, like sunlight,
Or a lager, toke the dregs of the day.
We'll catch up, slide down, the barmaid will pour
And we'll lean back from the compulsory fight
Over a highborn lady or new play.
A few shots, icy beaker of thinned gin,
Warm welcome of a good whiskey, and not
One moment to spare, as the bell will have rung.
They will pat you for guns on the way in,
And you'll have a fine time, if you don't get shot.
This is our last stark, sad chance to feel young.
What else to say of our faint star-fall town,
But we've sunk so low, we might as well drown.
Topic(s) of this poem: drinking