Madly ran through the entire week,
had to practically swim this last day,
finally a couple for a quick rest,
bellying up in a hurry to spend my pay.
Whatever they got on tap you know I’ll down,
hitting every cushion into my hip pocket,
to blow smoke and suds across sour faces,
watching both teams play under the heat.
Dishing melons for atop your ice cream,
above a view of flashing steam and sweat,
ringing bells and buzzers for my prize,
drenched in an embrace beyond wild howls.
Bent over the bar to devour a few fingers,
and scrape a boot within your familiar groove,
hands grasping toward anyone who agrees,
spilling my glass again for you intentionally.
Late shift sweep but still very far from sealed,
worn as this floor yet just as hard also,
collecting enough bets to pass their suite,
three lucky strangers gambling on your dress.
Strutting joyously degenerates below a crawl,
music deafening all bleeding about sorry passions,
trying to communicate how you lose graciously,
before they hog-tie what’s left for the mud outside.
Sharwrong's Song 