A TAVERN IN THE TOWN
by John T. Baker
Perhaps some day I'll find the time
To pen a brief epistle
About that corner tavern where
A guy could wet his whistle

Without a lot of fancy fuss -
Like doilies on the table -
Where all you did was sit and drink
Until you grew unstable.

The spry bartender knew your name
And poured your favorite potion
The moment you stepped in the door,
Without undue emotion.

No need to chat or make small talk,
He knew what you were thinking:
"The hell with conversation, friend,
Let's concentrate on drinking."

No television turned up loud,
No junky jukebox blaring,
No silly commentary on
What anyone was wearing.

An old piano in the back,
A fellow idly playing,
The room, thank God, then quiet enough
To hear what he was saying:

"Adieu, adieu kind friends, adieu,"
The cadence syncopating;
"I can no longer stay with you,"
The beat exhilarating.

No laser lights or posh decor,
No waitresses or tipping;
Your cares just seemed to drift away
The longer you kept sipping.

That tavern now is sadly gone,
The site a pile of rubble;
Oh how I've love to go once more
And drown again my trouble.