Much like when a song keeps playing in your head and you can’t stop it, (“Bye, bye, Miss American Pie / drove my Chevy…” A-I-I-I-I-E-E-E-E!!!), your friendly bartender is experiencing today another form of brain lock… that dreaded condition R.M.A.S. (Rhyme / Meter / Ad Nauseum Syndrome). Or at least that’s what he thinks it is, else how do you explain these words he’s written below…
So he woke up this morning melodic / in a state one could call damn near odic / which is better than days / awakened in haze / hung over, pissed off or neurotic. But what does he do with this feeling / this lighthearted rocking and reeling / this urge most sublime / to make up a rhyme / before he goes right through the ceiling?
“Why the answer is clear, Scribbler 50,” says Erato, his muse oh so nifty. “Write a poem to a pal, or an ode to a gal, and with feeling don’t dare to be thrifty.” (Hmmm, don’t have a gal right now… a pal would have me arrested if I wrote him a poem… ah, geez, I… whoa!… what’s that, Musey? What did you say? Did you say, “Why not rhyme a tribute to your fellow bartenders?” Geez, that’s a capital idea, Musey, capital! And maybe that’ll release me from all this meter and rhyming going on in my head. I’ll get on it immediately… (er-ah, excuse me)… we’ll get on it immediately!)
So here’s to my fellow bar tenders / who deal with their own elbow benders / who pour out the juice / that makes them feel loose / in hopes of creating big spenders.
I’ve set out to give you some props here / by testing my poetry chops here / to take off my hat / to here go to bat / and say that you’re one and all tops here.
For your job is a lot more than pouring / than schmoozing and boozing and scoring / you’re a part-time psychologist / full-time mixologist / master in bullshit adoring.
So let me break down who you are there / you two types who fill up a bar chair / you’re the temp on the way / or the lifer to stay / different but both on a par there.
Now to those who just do this for fun / as a gig ’til your real life ‘s begun / let me bid you take care / to treat this job fair / with class and you’ve already won.
For no job’s worth doing that’s small / and each has it worth overall / whether pouring a drink / or fixing a sink / it’s a brick in that unfinished wall.
So then when they’ve made you a star / when talent has taken you far / you can say with a wink / “You know what I think? / I learned how to act in a bar.”
And now to the others I speak / those brothers and sisters who seek / not their names up in lights / or to reach corporate heights / who do this each hour, day and week.
You’ve not fallen short as some say / or settled for less on the way / you’ve chosen to do / what your heart says is true / feeling pride at the end of the day.
For think about all this entails / each night as you ring up those sales / you’re a shrink, you’re a chum / you bring cheer where there’s glum / you regale with your stories and tales.
There are times of course when it’s work / as you deal with the consummate jerk / that guy who will test you / do damnedest to best you / then tip like a post office clerk.
But he’s the exception not rule / this Bar-land ridiculous fool / as most of your regs / are not of the dregs / and make your job worthwhile and cool.
So to those who are in this for fun / or in ’til the end of the run / I toast to your health / your bliss and your wealth / this tribute is over and done!
Phew!!! Glad that’s over, how was it for you, Musey? Want a cigarette? Now maybe your friendly bartender can at least say “hello” to someone without the urge to follow it up with “fellow”, or “mellow” or “yellow” or… ah… “bellow” or… um… “Jell-o” or… oh, ah… A-I-I-I-E-E-E–E-E-E!!!!!
PS: My apologies to any postal workers I might have offended out there, but I needed a word to rhyme with “jerk” and you’re the only “clerk” I could think of. So please, don’t go postal, man!