In a bar I call home

In a bar I call home

the Cyclone Kids have been gagged.

A Whig party spokesman

loiters too long

and doesn’t kickback.
In a bar I call home

the violence of victims

is good for a laugh.

The sermons of sacrifice

have lost their shine.
In a bar I call home

times reels its endless scrim

of monkey and dope.

The armored police

are setting up shop.
In a bar I call home

no one cares if I piss my pants.

The vinyl is worn. Unrest roils.

The shooting lists

are selling well.
In a bar I call home

the ugliest priest annuls 

confessions. Makes plans to blow up 

the meat truck. Swaps old bread 

for zeal.
In a bar I call home

the sun repels off Indian Point.

I steal the pens. Apprehend mercy.

Mock salute. Trade in

my carrots and coin.      

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