Bard Staff

A poem about running a bar of words. Contains content which may offend.

Image Credit: 
Public Domain

I would love to own a bar
that serves cocktails mixed with prose.
Dashes of rhyme and cola,
served by ears that never close.
The barman has always been
the aristocrat of the working class.
A cacophony of top shelf spirits
each demanding its very own glass.
Maybe a Manhattan laced with metaphors,
topped off with an olive or two.
Mixing fresh mint on the rocks of a Mojito,
as both poetry and fiction are fused.
Ice-chilled Frascati
combined with Perrier and a hint of Peach.
That sexual, flexible ingredient
that’s added to Sex On The Beach.
Double-shots of spoken word
served with lashings of slim-line verse.
Blending into the background
is more a blessing than a curse.
Don’t undervalue your bar staff
as they serve you your heart’s desire.
Screaming Orgasms by the multiple
or Lamborghinis caught on fire.
So next time you order a VAT
and toast all with what you imbibe.
Your barman will shoulder your burden
as they brighten up your lives.
Please recognise your server
for they are a well-trained and devout mixologist.
Remember they serve you
even though you talk shit when you’re pissed.

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Performance poet Stefan Gambrell, also known as the Neanderthal Bard, has been tearing it a new arsehole for the last few years.

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