In a 1920's modern
speakeasy I sit, place
is dimily lit, music is softly playing
but through the loud blended voices
you hear a rich horn playing, engaging
the spirit for people to drink; the atmosphere
is calming, romantic, but vintage,
a place where one can think, a place
where the divorced can drown their sorrows
but come out with a dame
feeling the same...
The energy is calm on
this warm early winter night,
breeze in the air but an
undertone chill, lightly tapping
your back and raising the hairs
and light goosebumps on
ya' arm, the charm of the
city and the despair,
the homeless, make
you appreciate your
seven dollar beer even
if the price is steep,
it means you have
enough to afford maybe
two possibly three, the
environment locks you
in as the candle light
dances on the ceiling, like
they're grooving to the
jazz as you enjoy the
lovely evening...
The smell of the
french dips galloping
at my nose, only thing
I'm missing is the
cigarette smoke
damaging my clothes
that's ravishing I suppose,
the scents together might
be clashing to those but a classic
to the old, the old downtown, when
the trolleys lined the streets
and film Nior wasn't trendy,
picture a Sunday evening at
your local speakeasy and
favorite singer, an old soul
I guess but its nice to see
the old renew, 1930's forbid
you, but we were in love
with you, sneaked you
inside of barrows on
the back of trucks, sound
kind of familiar with marijuana
and such, I digress from my rant,
eyes low, lit flame, inside the Varnish,
I drink my varnish and
listen to the piano playin'....
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