Ode to the Parlour

My bar, my bar, I long for your return.
It has been too long and my mouth grows parched.
I miss your rough worn bar top,
weathered from slouching men of broken spirits.

I have searched to find another,
but none can satisfy me as you have.
Always there with a sturdy stool,
and two fingers of golden bliss.

My bar, my bar, the great times we've had.
The cold pint after a hard days work,
the numbing of the nicotine's grasp.
The satisfaction of a greasy meal settled in my stomach.

The barkeep never let me go thirsty.
You welcomed me with beer and whiskey, as if open arms.
You always did me right.
You eased my mind and calmed my spirit.

My bar, my bar, the others just don't compare.
I've been to lounges and pubs and taverns a plenty.
I've drunk with townies and hipsters and frat boys and yuppies.
I've tried them all, from the upscale to the corner dive.

I have enjoyed many adulterous libations.
I can't say I haven't had my share of fun.
The others satisfy the random urge,
but can never provide the comfort you do.

My bar, my bar, you were not perfect, but nothing is.
Your flaws were what gave you character.
You weren't the cleanest or the hippest,
you weren't the cheapest or the most well stocked.

But when I just needed a drink or an escape from the world,
when I needed a smile and laugh with friends,
you were always there for me.
You were my bar.


...I'll miss you, friend.