A Tip for the Bartender
Michael this is stupid stuff.
You serve me liquor fast enough
then lecture me on all that's wrong
in staying at the bar too long.
Friends arrive, walk away,
converse with those who've more to say,
because the things I say are slurred
and don't quite match the poet's word.
A spastic tongue cannot do much
to steal the venom from its touch.
We both know the thoughts within
this mortal coil, this flask of skin.
Housman writes, prepare for ill,
so it's best to drink one's fill,
to sample nature's killing store-
then bravely stumble out the door.