there's a lounge singer in the bar with
two stars tattooed on his arms, with
a microphone in his hand and his
head reeling and buried in the sand.
he couldn't be any other person tonight,
but he's feeling anything like himself.
at least this city is cold, so the
whiskey is flowing, and nobody gives
a damn about the drinker slash singer
parading about the stage
with his two tattooes
talkin bout his blue suede shoes-

you can hear the shots ring out
in the empty glasses from which they came,
the hecklers heckle, the drinkers drink,
this is every night, cos every night's the same.
the bar slowly empties, the bottles strewn about
when the night has ended, this crowd has dwindled
from the one present previously
to himself, alone on a stage.

there's a lounge singer in the empty bar with
himself to blame for this situation-
no taxicab to call, nowhere to go
and not exactly caring-
as he stumbles over the shoelaces to those
blue suede shoes he's wearing.

03/13/2004

Posted on 03/13/2004
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams