By Aurin Squire
Fancy meeting you here, a place like this.
The drinks flowing freely, and please don't tip.
Plastic cups crushed underfoot, stale beer kiss
The fumes hit the noise resting on my lip.
A bartender's work is philanthropy,
Cupid arrows thrown in a mixer.
Buzzing hums massage the worker bee
Unpleasant drudge needs weekend elixir.
Won't you come home with me and stroke my feet?
In exchange I'll give you a skull massage.
And we'll cuddle/cry. Wouldn't that be neat?
In my illegal studio garage.
I'll pour the drinks and smile down the resent.
The sullen task, bartender's lament.
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