Last Chance Saloon

Written by: Tony Bush

NOTE: I don't find the time, neither do I have much inclination, to write a great deal these 
days. However, the occasional new piece gets composed, and this is one. I would like to take 
this opportunity to thank everyone - Ruben, Raul, Andrew, Elaine, Patricia, Carol, Adeleke, 
Krista, Trudi, Kristin, Bill, Shishir, Sami, James, Trudi and many, many others - who have 
been so kind, supportive and appreciative both now and in the past. You are stars. I am in 
your debt.

I know it's not the happiest piece, but it's what I have at the moment.

T.

Last Chance Saloon:

The deadbeat shuffle from Boardwalk to Boot Hill
Implores the synapse circuit of a short walk to the kill,
With one foot out of line one soon is gone
In Winter rains that fell all Summer long;
Never once did Zeus advise to pack a bag,
Only suck it up and tread the old main drag.

When first she shed her morals and her dress,
The channel burn adored her more than less,
Post-coital walks, romancing in the sun
Beat a path to living in the shadow of the gun;
As expectation always lets one down,
Rends the heart in two by softly skipping town.

From the stained-glass of an alcoholic haze
Wherein kaleidoscopic migraines snap and blaze,
The rusty barrelled gun scrapes at the head,
All the chambers full of coals and glowing red;
She resurfaces like some immortal doll,
And each bullet tastes of paracetamol.

So to raise the weary glass to mouth again,
To curse and toast her godforsaken name,
To down the medicine and down some more
And ride the bona-fide revolving bat-swing door;
Swear by saints alive to never leave this room,
No more chances left to chance in this last chance saloon.