(Dated 12/26/08. Clearly, I didn’t care much about final exams.)
I skipped school again to go to the bar.
Playing hooky in a juke joint on Golgotha Street.
There’s hockey playing on the television
above the bottles and
But I ain’t interested in all of that.
Drinks are never on the house
and there’s a hard-knock, well-whiskeyed waitress
who will never go home with me,
in spite of all my well-meaning charm
and respectful winks and liquored, loving looks.
Maybe I should have gone to class,
but I can’t tell
whether this bar is a wax museum
or a shooting gallery.