My Old Man Was a Bartender.


My old man was a bartender who pulled a lot of beer.

He never thought of wine without a strong blue collar sneer.

Twas nightclub stuff, or made in vats in ethnic basement holes,

And anyone who asked for it was cursed down to their soles.


He’s gone to where bartenders go – at least he’s off his feet.

I wonder if he’s sipping red while angel choirs bleat?

More likely he is pouring Bud for all the damned in Hell,

And still refusing vino to his thirsty clientele.


I do not shed a tear for his departure, to be frank.

He left me liking beer while thinking wine was sour swank.

But how can I develop any character at all

If I do not with some Chablis occasionally sprawl?