Jungheimers

 In western fields of corn and northern timber lands,
 They talk about me, a saloon with a soul,
 The soft red lights, the long curving bar,
 The leather seats and dim corners,
 Tall brass spittoons, a nigger cutting ham,
And the painting of a woman half-dressed thrown reckless
 across a bed after a night of booze and riots.

Email Poem |