BAR BAND BLUES
It was the skinny guitarist with an
eye-patch who got all the unattached
girls on Saturday night after the hour
set of sweaty songs and bent chords.
The drummer went home with his
horny wife who was ready and willing
to rub down his heavy shoulders.
The singer couldn’t get off the stage
fast enough to hit the town with a
belligerent entourage of aging bikers.
As the last minute fill-in bass player,
I was left behind to drink up my share
of the take until I was fortified enough
to sing backup with the crying moon.