We were expecting you--
about thirty years ago
but your table's still waiting.
Just sweep away the roaches.
The coat-check girl passed out
from the smell. You see,
her predecessor hung himself
and they can't cut down the body
till the coroner comes--
which won't be till the
ticket goes through
and the printer's out of ink.
Could be a while--
so, um, maybe don't check your coat.
The bartender's bringing your port,
but even with his walker
the tray's unsteady and
I see much of it has already spilled.
Didn't help that he had to
get around the bar-back, who
when she should've been cutting moldy lemons,
was juggling soap bubbles from the backed-up sink--
ever so slowly--
and they kept popping
on her eyebrow rings.
The head waitress will read you our specials.
Pay no mind to the blood on her cuffs.
She's a cutter, but it's more or less
under control since her pot-bellied pig returned
and she started shooting up.
We have cold cuts.
That's about it.
We can warm them if you like.
Tip the musicians, won't you?
But don't wake them.
Those fiddles haven't been
tuned in ten months.
Where'd your date go?
Was she put off by that
urchin under the table
gumming your shins?
That's not uncommon here.
Picaresque, we think.
The peasant soul and all that shit.
Enjoy.
