Date:         Sun, 14 Jun 1998 15:49:21 -0500
From: Phanny <corbett@AXA.SLU.EDU>
Subject:      [WRITERS] SUB: CONTEST: Barstock

Barstock

She's champagne
and I'm shot,
hung by our heels
rinsed clean every night
of a stranger's prints
red lips on her rim
imprinted, baby, to us
on our new life together.

And my love is a gleam
that no parttime barkeep need shine
we'd clink together afterhours
or did till the Glickman wedding.
Now she's cracked and hidden
behind the transients,
the barbrands, the pizzlegins,
comforted by that sour limey bastard Rose,
her mouth agape, full of change and matches.

I begged her
come back to me
but a drunk's whetted finger
played on the tip of her face
and she sang for him, explosively,
like she never sang for me.
He dropped her of course,
now she fears my touch,
and what once was culling love,
from the sublime afterhours on the rack
when we were sober
is just a refraction through the barstock.

Yeah, she's champagne
and I'm shot
a match made in hell or the Crumpet Room
of the Radisson North.
Hmm? Whadaya mean that fluted job is
looking at us.  Not you, buddy,
she doesn't go out with mugs.
Tequila shooter up, I hope she like the
taste of salt.