Lines Composed While Hunched Over the Last Decent Jukebox in America
Stiff icebox bourbon measured over rocks with just one splash
Of water. Well hooch, rum, sour mash served straight up.
Hot kegs of ale tapped fast as rotgut in red plastic cups.
Unless some poor fuck feels flush. Then, it's top shelf,
Till spare cash acts tipsy as the rest of us drunks: crashed
On pain pills, dope, rusted beds stripped off broke pickups.
We'll drop loose change on lit jukes, chase shot hopes,
Throw up hands like ripped crooks caught (just off-frame)
By rerun cops: all those mock tape decks stuffed with hash.
Let bent punks mouth sick bootleg licks friends punched in
Like clocks, since, who cares? counts loss enough to dance,
Laugh, cast orders dry as our bartender's sense of humor
Besides this rented music? Soundtracks mixed to cure
Our own thin blood: Help! Shout! Let's go get stoned . . .
Listen (Heartbreak beat) no one I know drinks for taste alone.
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