A Poem About Booze - Noaa Rienecker
He gets in the backseat of my cab
and tells me where to.
All night long we ride
stopping at all his favorite haunts,
visiting all his deadbeat buddies.
The fare box ticks steadily upwards,
climbing as the night wears on
in tandem with my confidence
that my passenger can handle the bill.
Quite a conversationalist, my client,
with a penchant for cigarettes, ice cream,
and cocaine.
We get along great,
so well, in fact,
that I forget amidst our
slurred and jovial goodnight wishes
to ask him
to pay up,
and just as he disappears around a corner,
I realize my wallet
is as flat as my tires.
and tells me where to.
All night long we ride
stopping at all his favorite haunts,
visiting all his deadbeat buddies.
The fare box ticks steadily upwards,
climbing as the night wears on
in tandem with my confidence
that my passenger can handle the bill.
Quite a conversationalist, my client,
with a penchant for cigarettes, ice cream,
and cocaine.
We get along great,
so well, in fact,
that I forget amidst our
slurred and jovial goodnight wishes
to ask him
to pay up,
and just as he disappears around a corner,
I realize my wallet
is as flat as my tires.