The Buckle

Jack Daniels whiskey label That has you out aged Stamped in the silver tombstone Aboard your belt. And the dust on your boots Not yet time worn, or tattered with age Almost as shiny as your youth Behind those still driven eyes embers of a fire Burning in your belly Flickering to flame In your dilating pupils If whiskey were all that Touched the rim Could you even hold A steady hand Keep it all down Or would your young-blood Reject all reason If I were a Mixologist I’d brand your innocence With something frozen pink and fruity Or perhaps your Ivy League smile Would entice the monkey’s lunch Milk could still do that body good But behind my condescending smirk And my time tailored thirty-something taste for whiskey There is a little, Miss McGill That wants to brew you tea Boil your barley-teasing-twenty assets And let them steep in the confines Of a solid bed frame.