Liquor there is—but how I miss the Bar!
I miss a certain attitude of mind,
Congenial, which I seek but never find
Except beneath the golden triple star
Which from the brandy bottle shines afar.
I miss a type of jest that was designed
For roaring barrooms warmed with booze, and
kind—
Good Gawd! how coarse and low my real tastes are.
I miss an ambling, splay-foot waiter's beak,
Which like some red peninsula of hell
Glowed through the humming barroom's smoky
reek—
I miss the lies I used to hear men tell
Over the telephone to waiting wives—
What sweet aromas had these joyous lives!