You walk into the barroom,
under a pool of light,
just got in a fight with your lady,
and you’re taking off the night,
you keep your overcoat on,
and you keep your head low,
this isn’t a place,
where faces are shown,
it’s dingy and it’s musty,
it’s dark and shady,
and the only color it seems,
is from the lipsticked lady,
who’s serving your drinks,
and you start to swim,
but you say thank you first,
and the lady grins,
and says:
for what?

The beer is terrible,
and there’s not enough noise,
an old man sits on your left,
and orders in a trembling voice
he’s wearing a nice coat
and you wonder why,
then he turns and looks,
with his one glass eye,
tilted to the right,
so you go back to your beer,
you just never know,
what kind of freaks will come here,
but they don’t ask questions,
and the beer is cheap,
and you think of your wife,
at home, fast asleep,
and you mutter:
for what?

A man walks in,
and sits on your right,
he taps you on your shoulder,
and asks you for a light,
he has a beard,
it’s full and it’s blue,
and his bulging green eyes,
are looking straight at you,
and you think of a meat hook,
and you hand him a match,
he twitches as he lights it,
and inhales real fast,
you look down into the depths,
of your amber brew,
and you see two bloodshot eyes,
looking back at you,
and you wonder:
for what?

The man with,
the one glass eye,
is having a dark,
purple-red wine,
and his fingers wrap around
the stem of his cup,
and as he raises her glass,
your eyes go up,
and you feel a pounding,
within your chest,
it’s faint at first,
but that gives you no rest,
as it increases in volume,
from his well tailored coat,
and the wine dribbles down
his corpse white throat,
and he says:
for what?

You turn away from the old man,
cause you don’t want to think,
and you turn to your right,
and you see the mans drink,
is a bottle of scotch,
and a glass filled with ice,
the lipsticked lady pours it,
and he says, “that will suffice,”
in an accent you know,
but you just can’t quite place,
and the same with his beard,
and the same with his face,
and shot after shot,
till his face bulges out,
and he gets off his stool,
and lets of a shout,
of anger.
For what?

So you look back down,
and you fiddle with your glass,
and you dunk some bread in it,
like an unholy mass,
and the blue bearded man,
is knocked out on the floor,
and the one-eyed man,
is walking out the door,
and you eat your bread,
and you drink you beer,
and wait for the lipsticked lady,
to come near,
and you say “thank you” again,
and again she grins,
with white against red,
and your head starts to swim,
as she says:
for what?