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Bartender Oh Bartender
Bartender Oh Bartender
(a stout rendition of O Captain! My Captain!
Perfect rhythmic rhyme with tonic
when the doth ale).
Mine eyes espy the glory per the ending
of another work day beckon Baileys Irish Creme
with Absolut certainty that Fireball named Brandy
the Patron Crown Royal abets dream
quest proof positive to expunge stressful Boss
distilling this cooked Grey Goose a gleam
with nary a clue how my ceaseless toiling efforts
play within the lager corporation scheme
assigning exemplary skills and talents within
what appears to be a trumped up losing team.
No exit out this grueling
twenty first century rat trap
when The Chips Are Down,
whereby Scotch chief en gin that air
except to drawn displeasure
and wallow in sorrows
downing Booze or house brand beer
despite drunken state
erodes axons and synapses
snap like chattering teeth of broken gear
quickly cause tenuous grasp on queasy reality,
sanity, and tenacity rent asunder and tear.
Now that work day done
at long last, not a moment
to tally date with Jack Daniels to delay
this linkedin the conga line wants to wash away
sounds of barked orders Rum bling – may
king me insides writhing
with anger as if type cast
in diabolical formidable, horrible play
whereby each active scene increases assistance
for Johnny Walker to glide and sashay.
Argh, how those last remaining minutes to escape
hubbub tick away at the pace of a snail
to these myopic eyes, which suspect manager
surreptitiously turns back clock hands male
lush hiss lee deliberately toys with sanity, thus
seek counsel from Jimmy Beam without fail
when super tramping head honcho will cease
cheap trick renouncing cruel act with ale.
Without schmaltz, Hops, skips and jumps
inebriation welcomes me by rendering taps
receding thoughts of being bound, cramped,
and emulsified in dark cubicle Schnapps
as if invisible taut cord tears into virtual tatters
and this life of Wry lee loosed like flaps
from shredded material trailing a tail that
rivals tales of Aesop's.
That ambler liquid of the gods soothes palate
and tongue helps a comfortably numb
feeling to settles within thine body electric
dulling the senses with heavy eyelids plum
met to close shut tight riding the wave of ecstasy,
reflecting about dad and late mum
though come the morrow, a hangover with
sensation akin to Gunter Grass
loud internal tin drum.
Upon rising sober with total amnesia sans
pandering as a buffoon
realizing fallacious gimcrackery while ensconced
in fermented cocoon
an email fried off from the top dog quickly
reminded yours truly how I did goon
off the rails, perhaps cuz of living within
a trackless caboose
August sized wife named June
adept at belting out
and playing Claire de lune.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
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