More a lyric than a poem, though the best lyrics are certainly both (Jackson Browne, Bob Dylan for example).
If you go to a country bar and don't pick up at least a story, you weren't really there.
Lynn Anderson, "Please Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends"
Sitting in a tavern, kind of a honky-tonk dive;
Not my usual hangout, just a change of pace.
A four-piece band – at least the music is live;
And a lady at the bar with Lynn Anderson's face,
Drinking shots of tequila like she owns the place.
And I'm thinking: she's way out of my league.
Hell, I don't even know what league she's in.
But I tell the bartender I'm up for the intrigue.
Give her a couple of whatever she's shooting
With my complements to the lovely lady Lynn.
She looks at the shots, shakes her head with a sigh,
And walks over and says: 'I'm not that kind of girl'.
And I say (pretty clever): 'I'm not that kind of guy.
I'm just looking for conversation, and maybe a whirl
On the dance floor. By the way, my name's Merle'.
She laughs and walks away, lithe as a cat.
There's something about a forty-year old ass
In tight jeans that says 'been there, done that'.
And I paid my tab, walked out, took a pass,
Leaving Lynn making love to the pain in her glass.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 654 times
Written on 2010-11-15 at 14:00
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If you go to a country bar and don't pick up at least a story, you weren't really there.
Lynn Anderson's Face
"Never's just the echo of forever . . ."Lynn Anderson, "Please Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends"
Sitting in a tavern, kind of a honky-tonk dive;
Not my usual hangout, just a change of pace.
A four-piece band – at least the music is live;
And a lady at the bar with Lynn Anderson's face,
Drinking shots of tequila like she owns the place.
And I'm thinking: she's way out of my league.
Hell, I don't even know what league she's in.
But I tell the bartender I'm up for the intrigue.
Give her a couple of whatever she's shooting
With my complements to the lovely lady Lynn.
She looks at the shots, shakes her head with a sigh,
And walks over and says: 'I'm not that kind of girl'.
And I say (pretty clever): 'I'm not that kind of guy.
I'm just looking for conversation, and maybe a whirl
On the dance floor. By the way, my name's Merle'.
She laughs and walks away, lithe as a cat.
There's something about a forty-year old ass
In tight jeans that says 'been there, done that'.
And I paid my tab, walked out, took a pass,
Leaving Lynn making love to the pain in her glass.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 654 times
Written on 2010-11-15 at 14:00
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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