I have known many a bar, and the best of them all pour their liquor down the same old road; sometimes cobbled sometime paved sometimes not a road at all; promontory sands can lead the way or the quayside timbers of harbors and bays.
Same old friends on barstool watch, in each bar called by a different name. Same good lies on leader lines; same old jokes with an accent change. Each of us cut from the same sail cloth.
A place where laughter and the occasional tear always seem a damn sight more sincere; where the music’s never louder then the voice of a friend until Saturday night when the band comes in.
It’s a church that serves up more then sermons with wine and if you see the Burning Bush, then you have had way too much.
A comforting encouraging place to rack your hat and hang your coat when a cold Yankee wind begins blowing your way or it is just too hot and ninety in the shade.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem