the neon sign of the bar across the street
transfers me to a whole other town,
somewhere so far away I've only
reached in drunk dreams.
I stand at the balcony, Wild Turkey in hand,
laughing because I've gotten drunk in the bar
plenty a-time, it's nothing like the dives
the neon sign promises. catering to the rich,
my tabs are always three digits even when
I desperately try to keep it modest.
it's right across the street and I know
the owner; no better place to have a drink (or ten),
after you've gone out with
sober friends who can't handle a second drink.
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