Another week ends and here I am once more.
Friday evenings I sit, and my friend you pour.
I drink to the gods who delegate my fate,
a toast to a lover, a colleague or mate.
You are "The Barman" a legend in your own right.
You pour out the numbness, and soak up sins of the night.
Stories are your rubix cube, a toy to pass the time.
You listen with intent, a gate keeper in his prime.
This week was different, there was a twinkle in your eye.
You noticed, I noticed, and your smile was rye.
A glance to your hands, and I see the crimson of blood.
Your the legendary bartender, but are you evil or good?
The tales you've absorbed, full of hatred and love.
Which ones have you focused on, the flames or the dove?
Suddenly I notice the bar is now empty.
It's clear you are twisted, my one confession was plenty.......