The doc said, “Son, it ain’t wise,” with his clipboard and his sigh,
“that burn ain’t meant for swallowin’, just dab it when you’re dry.”
But I grinned and tipped my bottle, let the sting roll down my tongue, a fire-kissed ambition — who says a man ain’t young?
“Oh, what’s a suit in pleated slacks, with his stethoscope so neat?
He don’t know the burn of livin’, or the taste of outlawed sweet!”
I’ve sipped from silver flasks at dawn, and licked the barroom spills, but nothin’ wakes a weary soul like aftershave, that kills.
My belly growled a wild complaint, like thunder ‘neath my shirt,
but damn the doc—I took another sip, and laughed through all the hurt. “Oh, what’s a suit in pleated slacks, with his warnings crisp and clean? I’ll drink my cologne like pirate’s gold, ’til the nurses roll me in!”
Now the gurney gleams like Sunday chrome, and the hall lights hum their tune, but I’ll haunt this town with peppered breath, and a ghost that smells like a bruise. So heed me, boys and reckless hearts, when the docs all fuss and fret—the best life’s lived just slightly wrong…and slightly ain’t dead yet.
Hahah. I enjoyed the melody I caught in this.
Almost like drunken sailor singing after a storm.
Thanks for posting adagio!
Thank you, Adelphina.