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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Edit (Second prize) EIGHTH AT EIGHT A.M. by Jeffry Cohan on Thursday, December 15 @ 9:28am While walking when the southern wind changes in my direction and become nor-easters such as a festering infection I have not a choice but to go where my worn out shoes will take me Until I reach far enough south for the sun to bake me so people inquire why I don't drive a car and i tell them because were i to have one I'd drink after leaving a bar Panama Pete, the owner, knows straight vodka is all i ever drink and he knows how many I need to no longer think since drinking at eight A.M. only gets me in trouble with ladies or the law and please don't think that alcohol is my only flaw so I leave old Pete with his Panama hat's brim well worn until, more often than not, I awake on some stranger's lawn how I got there and why I am indifferent to and take my word for it I am different from you you probably have loved ones who would care if you'd die I, however, could expire and not a soul on earth would cry no moans, no groans and no tears would be shed for only Panama Pete will miss me when I'm dead other people I’ve cheated will try to slay me because they despise me and no tuxedo, three piece suit nor pin-stripes can disguise me i am what i am because of a detrimental mind and people can discern what i am even if they're blind So I rise from the stranger's lawn and keep on the run (Panama Pete is actually his name and owns or owned a seedy bar on eighth avenue and 46th Street in Manhattan. i haven't seen him in twelve years but if he’s still among the living I’m giving ten to one odds that say, were i to walk into his establishment he'd pour me four and one on the house)
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