Suck Butts

Suck Butts

Suck Butts Cafe hired a “Dead Flowers” singer.
He looks like a frat boy and sings flat.
Others stay back in line, some are fingered
While the black hole of folk strums donning a hat.

Mushrooms waft from a garlicked pan:
Bespeckled gentlemen ponder sloppy chords.
One fine lass, upholstered black and tan
Sucks a stirring stick before heading out the door.

Rockers should not be allowed to steal the stage
Where folkers normally play.
Love’s in vain when all you do is rage
Won’t you stop to listen once today?

No; yellow tinged orange leaves make a better friend
When Nino blows an 80 degree day
Here in October. Two months before the nomad sends
A new address from down Dean Dome way.

Dare I pack it in, just to volunteer?
Will this illusion create a better chance
To spend a week or two living without fear?
Or, at least, provide a place to dance?

“Who knows.”

 

 

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1997. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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