The Son of the last of a long line of thinkers. (delascabezas) wrote,
The Son of the last of a long line of thinkers.
delascabezas

  • Mood:

thus begins my career as a drunken poet/songwriter

It was too late to be drinking
Or too early not to.
I don’t quite remember,
Why I ended up there anyhow.
The memories are in there
But hiding, behind the barstools.

A Manhattan without a cherry
Is really just a Woodlawn.
Sweet vermouth, I love you so;
Why you hate me, I’ll never know.
Glasses with stems can never be highball,
No matter how hard they try.

There was heartbreak and hysteria
Football future telling politics;
The State of the Union and
The state of MLB, and NHL.
It allways came back to three options.
Regardless of those three:

A Manhattan without a cherry
Is really just a Woodlawn.
Sweet vermouth, I love you so,
Why you hate me, I’ll never know.
Bars were meant to be smoky inside;
It helps obscure drunkenness.

The jukebox was on random.
It played the soundtrack
To one of the circles of hell.
And there was a padded skeleton
In pink sequins, using her breasts
To pay her bartab.

And it was too late when I left
Or it was too early.
To late to be drinking,
Or too early not to.
Because a Manhattan without a cherry,
Is really just a Woodlawn.
A Woodlawn 'till dawn.
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