Hobo Jungle
Hev, allow me to buy you one if I may.
BAR
The bouncer at my neighborhood pub
is a hero. A big Canadian, he never
acts tough; as all the roosters
swagger around him making claims.
He was a professional intimidator
on the hockey ice for ten years,
pounding other men on their helmets
with his fists, massive roundhouse
punches, his jaw set like the
bow of a schooner in bad seas.
Now he waits on a stool by the door
his face ashen and scarred,
his eyes calm, his smile slight,
his shoulder irreparably torn;
always polite he never complains,
never shouts, just smoothly removes
any trouble like a puck gliding
over new ice.
One of the pub's owners once
carried a full keg of ale
up from the basement two flights
just to pour me a fresh pint,
hammering a hole in the wall
as he staggered at the second floor.
I had suggested a brand of ale,
an honest workingman's beer,
the beer I'd grown up with,
a name from the past;
(not an ale to be sipped
but to be drunk ten of)
But the pub's owners had differed, and
that first keg had languished below
till it was raised by one
and brought to my glass,
as a radical thought
is brought into the light.
Like a tough boxer claims fans
so this ale made inroads
claiming the true drinkers who
don't need prestige in a glass.
From the occasional second-floor bar
it earned its way onto the main line,
now its simple tap handle holds place
against the spires of fancier beers,
a momentum triggered by a gesture.
And so I take my corner seat,
and order a pint of this ale,
and look out at the street,
that quiet hour before thirst
brings in all the others:
Those we like, those we avoid,
those we don't know and those
who bring the fast smile
and the good worn words
Allow me to buy you one.
BAR
The bouncer at my neighborhood pub
is a hero. A big Canadian, he never
acts tough; as all the roosters
swagger around him making claims.
He was a professional intimidator
on the hockey ice for ten years,
pounding other men on their helmets
with his fists, massive roundhouse
punches, his jaw set like the
bow of a schooner in bad seas.
Now he waits on a stool by the door
his face ashen and scarred,
his eyes calm, his smile slight,
his shoulder irreparably torn;
always polite he never complains,
never shouts, just smoothly removes
any trouble like a puck gliding
over new ice.
One of the pub's owners once
carried a full keg of ale
up from the basement two flights
just to pour me a fresh pint,
hammering a hole in the wall
as he staggered at the second floor.
I had suggested a brand of ale,
an honest workingman's beer,
the beer I'd grown up with,
a name from the past;
(not an ale to be sipped
but to be drunk ten of)
But the pub's owners had differed, and
that first keg had languished below
till it was raised by one
and brought to my glass,
as a radical thought
is brought into the light.
Like a tough boxer claims fans
so this ale made inroads
claiming the true drinkers who
don't need prestige in a glass.
From the occasional second-floor bar
it earned its way onto the main line,
now its simple tap handle holds place
against the spires of fancier beers,
a momentum triggered by a gesture.
And so I take my corner seat,
and order a pint of this ale,
and look out at the street,
that quiet hour before thirst
brings in all the others:
Those we like, those we avoid,
those we don't know and those
who bring the fast smile
and the good worn words
Allow me to buy you one.
Last edited by Tramp on Fri Dec 22, 2006 7:59 pm, edited 1 time in total.
hev52 wrote:I'm a beer thristy elf........................................
hev
http://www.elfyourself.com/?userid=ee6a ... 6G06122214
A
Tell the gingerbread boy I want one of them there gingerbreads......................they look good.................................................... 
I'm off to the turkey farm which by the way sits along the Strasburg railroad tracks to pick-up my fresh turkey for Christmas dinner. Maybe I'll catch the train goin' by......................
hev
I'm off to the turkey farm which by the way sits along the Strasburg railroad tracks to pick-up my fresh turkey for Christmas dinner. Maybe I'll catch the train goin' by......................
hev
-
P&R Pete
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