You like it shaken, I'll give it to you stirred.
Peanut shells, crumpled napkins
with chicken scratch thrown out
like the not-so-good intentions of the bachelor crowd.
Battalions of double-breasted rotten egg drunks
sway and bop with the bada-bing,
"Son, you've had enough."
She slinks to the bathroom to powder her nose
with the bandstand man
She's a time-bomb of Chanel No. 5 in a Cadillac,
and she makes me slide
like pomade slick and wingtips stitched with spice
The cymbals ching and the high-hats ride the
tenor sax. Pour me something heavy.
Gimme a light.
I don't believe in angels since this cat
lost his swing, drowning in claret lips and
unfamiliar sobriety. The diva she wails
"Talk to me, baby. Tell me your sin."
But I've never been much for small talk in the dark
when the air's made of smoke and the red lights
flicker for your last call
The mink dames have already made up their minds.
It's been years, and I haven't touched flesh
or my drink. Ashes flick.
I lie a lot, friend. I regret things.