The Pub

The bawdry one’s ruddy cheek went pale, Too black grit in my gums, but the taste of ale only camps my tongue. And no ill will is intended Toward this fool heavyweight champ liar Whose clout with other folks, lit by molasses, Has my heart flee something fierce, Wish on doom tomorrow! Over there, my friend sleeps on a stairwell Mothered by true love he met not long before. With queen-like alabaster hands, she sweeps the Sodden hairs lightly from his eyes. And behind them, this revelry I observe through oily night, Faint as a daguerreotype, does not subside.