When I consider how my light is spent,
I must consider how to pay the rent;
and if I compare thee to a summer's day,
I have to remember to pick up my pay
from Doll at the Not Marble Nor Gilded
Monument Bar & Grille, where I'm gelded
daily in speculations soured by sun;
I have no water, but I could use a gun.
A sudden blow, the thug's sap beating still—
walking to my second job, at Mabel's,
I'm jumped by punks under the burned-out light—
this goddamn neighborhood has gone downhill!
They also serve who only wait tables;
Baby, I'll be … your server to-niii-ii-ight.
-- Jim Cummins.
Note: I dared Jim to write an on-the-spot poem for insant posting and he obliged with the above on condition that I write and post my impromptu effort, so that will follow shortly. -- DL