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Brass Bed Bar

Poetry By: Bonnie Jackson
Poetry



The Brass Bed Bar. It's a slum, it's a speakeasy, it's the place of the damned and the beautiful. Welcome to the Brass Bed Bar. Don't plan to leave.


Submitted:Dec 22, 2006    Reads: 170    Comments: 3    Likes: 0   


Brass Bed Bar

She spoke in riddles, her lips would curl,

She toyed with trinkets and a ring of blue pearl,

With her eyes alight and a wistful smile,

She said, "Yeah, I think I'll stay here for a while."

Under the canopy of smoke, by the billiards table,

Two men flew fists like Cain and Abel,

The barmaid wept at the Lieutenant's feet,

As the barefoot man stumbled down the street,

It was the only slum for a mile around-the old Brass Bed Bar.

The blind man mourned for the piano without a key,

As his hungry fingers searched for the dead ivory,

Like the fire bird's despair, his tears were as jewels,

They spilled to the floor and became silent dark pools.

The Capulets and Montagues play cards by the band,

And the coffins at their feet were used as music stands,

But vicar in the corner played with his Celtic cross,

His guilty realm at last accounted the cost.

Brass Bed Bar

She spoke in riddles, her lips would curl,

She toyed with trinkets and a ring of blue pearl,

With her eyes alight and a wistful smile,

She said, "Yeah, I think I'll stay here for a while."

Under the canopy of smoke, by the billiards table,

Two men flew fists like Cain and Abel,

The barmaid wept at the Lieutenant's feet,

As the barefoot man stumbled down the street,

It was the only slum for a mile around-the old Brass Bed Bar.

The blind man mourned for the piano without a key,

As his hungry fingers searched for the dead ivory,

Like the fire bird's despair, his tears were as jewels,

They spilled to the floor and became silent dark pools.

The Capulets and Montagues play cards by the band,

And the coffins at their feet were used as music stands,

But vicar in the corner played with his Celtic cross,

His guilty realm at last accounted the cost.

Under the canopy of smoke, by the billiards table,

Two men flew fists like Cain and Abel,

The barmaid wept at the Lieutenant's feet,

As the barefoot man stumbled down the street,

It was the only slum for a mile around-the old Brass Bed Bar.

The musician with a painted face and a feather in his hat,

Sat with pen pending with a stray black cat,

At length the ink spilled and the words became known,

The title on the paper read, "Like a Rolling Stone."

Under the veil of night I trudged in the snow,

But the face stained girl said I'd better go,

"That place" she spat, "is a hell hole, no more,"

"But once you go in you won't again find the door."

"That slum is the heart of this Bermuda town-the old Brass Bed Bar.

Under the canopy of smoke, by the billiards table,

Two men flew fists like Cain and Abel,

The barmaid wept at the Lieutenant's feet,

As the barefoot man stumbled down the street,

It was the only slum for a mile around-the old Brass Bed Bar.

The musician with a painted face and a feather in his hat,

Sat with pen pending with a stray black cat,

At length the ink spilled and the words became known,

The title on the paper read, "Like a Rolling Stone."

Under the veil of night I trudged in the snow,

But the face stained girl said I'd better go,

"That place" she spat, "is a hell hole, no more,"

"But once you go in you won't again find the door."

"That slum is the heart of this Bermuda town-the old Brass Bed Bar.





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