hard times café

HARD TIMES CAFé

When the doors swing open

the stale air leaks welcome

arms held wide open, not one of them true

darkness with eyes, bartender, bartender

why are all these people?

& what have they done

to deserve such a fate

I'll have what they're having but not quite so strong

hunched up in ratspit tavern

quiet as they are west, set in their ways

throats so dry they begin to rust

no sun come by here in a good few years, boy

shining us on

saloon saloon on the cobweb jukebox

the usual suspects - a gun wrapped in gincloth and bloodsoak

a bag of tobacco chewed off in a corner

bulletholes the size of manholes

with families in the walls

a boarded up window 

near a painting of a smile

dim the lights now, headmaster of headaches

Samuel Adams, sir, please

where am I? some kind of hard times café?

you're insincere

yes but, where's that?