The Brownian Lark - Part One

I don’t know why I came to The Brownian Lark
It’s a smoky jazz pub, uninviting and dark,
It’s awfully close to the brothel, and by the bazaar,
Alleged home to the pimps of a porn star

No hub of hustle on a rainy Tuesday morn
Except a few people, cursed and forlorn,
I look around, escaping the barkeep’s glare,
As I walked towards a stool, that was lying spare

Eyed the bartender, as I sat down,
He was a burly man, with an unpleasant frown,
I light a cigarette, as the barkeep approaches,
He shoves an ashtray towards me, it’s full of roaches*

A jazz band plays, on the other side,
A perfect tune for the morning’s pride,
Some old folks can be seen playing poker,
Aces, Jacks, Kings and Queens, all the same to me the joker

“What‘ll it be?”, the barkeep finally spoke,
At my illusive thoughts, his words seemed to poke,
The barkeep’s impatience reflected in his voice,
“Vodka, please”, I made my choice

The barkeep snarled, as he served my drink,
I sniffed the shot, it seemed to stink,
I drowned it all, not minding the stench,
It smashed my head, with a two-jawed wrench


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