Only Racists Drink Here Poem by David Welch

The light is low but the music loud,
blaring from fiddles and steel guitars.
The bar is filled with a moderate crowd,
could be anywhere, but here they are,
drinking and two-stepping in this bar.
But the sight of them must inspire fear,
for the media says, 'Only racists drink here.'

Stanley in boots is twirling his wife.
Conner, in trucker hat, does some shots.
A country band covers Make It Through the Night,
While Big Billy won't move from his spot,
Sharing wings with those who sadly have got,
A taste for plain and everyday beer,
a sure sign that only racists drink here.

Now Stanley you see is dark as coal,
and not from working in the mines,
His wife is pale, and lives not on the dole.
For thirty years by each other's side,
taking the challenges of life in stride.
But the sight of this makes it ever clear,
they must be racists if they're drinking here.

Conner's a man who has never hurt
a single person in all of his days,
He runs the gas station down on of McGirk,
and keeps people going their way,
He puts in long hours for his pay.
But selling gas draws apocalypse near,
and only a racist would be drinking here.

Big Billy may not always eat healthy,
but his smile sure lights up the town,
The nicest of fellows, plays Santa for free,
in December when Christmas comes round,
for all the little kids in the town.
But to city folk, that's plainly weird,
and he must be a racist for drinking here.

The band up front survives on covers
of musicians who've been to the Opry,
They're known across West Virginia,
for tunes both swinging and twangy,
they never leave the folks hanging.
But there is no turn-table in their gear,
so they must be racists for playing here.

The owner has heard this all before,
the endless and smug contentions,
from those who country-folk plainly abhor,
those who say he's beyond redemption,
With not a whit of evidence to mention.
He lets them have their imagined fears,
he'd never want those scum drinking here.