“Where’ve you been?” – The pinprick soliloquy.
It reached out, and grabbed me.
And it was cold and damp and wiggly
But after a while it stabbed me;
And the blood lost
Left the bartop glossed,
A silhouette mirror that entrenches me
Within those 28 lying inches
Of imitation mahogany.

“I’ve been writing.” – The unspoken apology.
Betwixt the burns, it escaped me,
And through the bits of broken honesty
The burn that burnt, it raped me;
But then, in slides another glass
And after a goodtime pass
With a playful pep, it pinches me
Beneath those 28 cheating inches
Of imitation mahogany.

“No you haven’t.” – The choric comedy.
Then, another round, it told me
To the bourbon-tempo prosody
That its wood would always hold me;
So warm the nook,
So sharp the hook,
In a fluid snag it winches me
Across those 28 slippery inches
Of imitation mahogany.

“You’re right.” – The abandoned odyssey.
Another round to light the black I see,
Another round, repeated commonly,
Another round, and it came back to me;
“Another round?” – As if prophetic,
“Another round.” – Forlorn, pathetic,
Another round and then it clenches me,
Another round, it flays and lynches me
Atop those 28 fucking inches
Of imitation mahogany.

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