Yet another to chew on...
I originally planned to make this poem a lot longer, doing one of those comparisons between the tavern, the pub, the bar, etc. Despite what anyone says, there is a difference. I really liked how this one turned out in its shortened version. Enjoy.
Scenes from a Bar
The creaking sound of the glass door summons me from my inebriated daze.
One of these days somebody should oil that thing.
Patrons enter, thirsting for their beautiful pitchers of blond brew.
The mixed and varied conversations ensue.
I recline as best as I can on my stool.
I'm alone tonight, but not because I'm depressed,
The atmosphere always brings a cheer to my heart.
The college kids are drinking the taps dry,
As tonight is Two-for-One.
Watching them stumble around and try to play pool always makes me laugh.
The pretty bar-maid refills my glass of bourbon without even asking,
I give her a smile, and a tip.
She knows how to keep the customers happy.
Just look at her voluptuous bosom, accentuated by her revealing shirt.
If only my words were enough to woo her.
But she's not the reason I keep coming back,
And though I'm not an alcoholic, I'm something of a bar-fly.
It's just the atmosphere; it's more addicting than the liquor.
I take a long, slow drag off of one of my cigarettes,
Ashy, burning plant always tastes good with a glass of Bourbon.
As I calmly let the smoke drift through my nostrils, a fellow patron drifts near me.
It's old Mrs. Cleary, a fellow bar-fly.
She tells me about her garden, and her bed of azaleas,
I casually listen, not paying attention, but listening for the company.
Old Mrs. Cleary lost her husband in 1987, and she started coming here for the atmosphere.
She bums a cig off me, and spouts off a little gossip about the unscrupulous lot on the far end.
Jim and Jake Townsend.
There's been some gossip that they raped a fourteen year old last year.
They took her up in their hayloft, got her drunk, and had their way.
The girl was asleep the whole time.
But that's just your typical, run-of-the-mill gossip in a small town.
They seem like a respectable group, and I'm not one to judge, so I won't.
I finish off my Bourbon and take in the hearty music the college kids have chosen.
There's nothing like a good Rolling Stones song.
Now these kids have taste.
One of the college girls starts to clap her hands and jumps up on the bar,
But she's so far gone, she just falls off before she can even get into her groove.
Her friends laugh at her, and so do I, but softly to myself.
I don't want to embarass her more than she already is.
I hear the pretty bar-maid ring the bell for last call.
Maybe I should get going before the college kids.
It would be awful if they hit my car.
I put on my coat and bid a fond goodnight to the bar-maid and Mrs. Cleary.
Driving home, I miss the place already.
Scenes from a Bar
The creaking sound of the glass door summons me from my inebriated daze.
One of these days somebody should oil that thing.
Patrons enter, thirsting for their beautiful pitchers of blond brew.
The mixed and varied conversations ensue.
I recline as best as I can on my stool.
I'm alone tonight, but not because I'm depressed,
The atmosphere always brings a cheer to my heart.
The college kids are drinking the taps dry,
As tonight is Two-for-One.
Watching them stumble around and try to play pool always makes me laugh.
The pretty bar-maid refills my glass of bourbon without even asking,
I give her a smile, and a tip.
She knows how to keep the customers happy.
Just look at her voluptuous bosom, accentuated by her revealing shirt.
If only my words were enough to woo her.
But she's not the reason I keep coming back,
And though I'm not an alcoholic, I'm something of a bar-fly.
It's just the atmosphere; it's more addicting than the liquor.
I take a long, slow drag off of one of my cigarettes,
Ashy, burning plant always tastes good with a glass of Bourbon.
As I calmly let the smoke drift through my nostrils, a fellow patron drifts near me.
It's old Mrs. Cleary, a fellow bar-fly.
She tells me about her garden, and her bed of azaleas,
I casually listen, not paying attention, but listening for the company.
Old Mrs. Cleary lost her husband in 1987, and she started coming here for the atmosphere.
She bums a cig off me, and spouts off a little gossip about the unscrupulous lot on the far end.
Jim and Jake Townsend.
There's been some gossip that they raped a fourteen year old last year.
They took her up in their hayloft, got her drunk, and had their way.
The girl was asleep the whole time.
But that's just your typical, run-of-the-mill gossip in a small town.
They seem like a respectable group, and I'm not one to judge, so I won't.
I finish off my Bourbon and take in the hearty music the college kids have chosen.
There's nothing like a good Rolling Stones song.
Now these kids have taste.
One of the college girls starts to clap her hands and jumps up on the bar,
But she's so far gone, she just falls off before she can even get into her groove.
Her friends laugh at her, and so do I, but softly to myself.
I don't want to embarass her more than she already is.
I hear the pretty bar-maid ring the bell for last call.
Maybe I should get going before the college kids.
It would be awful if they hit my car.
I put on my coat and bid a fond goodnight to the bar-maid and Mrs. Cleary.
Driving home, I miss the place already.