Eight At Eight
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EIGHTH AT EIGHT A.M.
by Jeffry Cohan on Thursday, December 30, 2010 at 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 iis 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 care not 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
(C)2011....Phreepoetry ~free cee!~
(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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