Hey Mr. Bartender

Bars, wars, the man

who pours,

they all adore and

settle old scores.

He stands at the ready

with a bottle of Cutty,

aloofness is his pleasure,

enfolding warmth

in equal measure.

A dispenser he is

of liquid pleasure,

they gaze upon his

rows of bottled

treasure.

Ready with a smile,

or a towel 'til

it's time to close.

'One last call for alcohol',

the final stanza of the play,

clean the mats, wipe the

bottles and bar,

and come back

another day.