In this dim, dilapidated temple Shabby devotees of Dionysius Perform the daily rite with bitter fruit Of grain or vine or libations tawdry As the venue of their keen worship. So pious they, these shabby shamans, Six days each week they make pilgrimage And await the opening of the shrine. Solitary in run-down pick ups, Ramshackle old jalopies where each Sits rapt and bowed, meditating on The divine oblivion to come. The high priestess unlocks the sanctum, Performs the ritual glance and wave Signaling her squalid flock that services Will commence anon.
The guys in the poem were the alcoholics who were at the local bar before it opened at 3 p.m. everyday except Monday (when it was closed)....I always wondered what they did on Monday!
Wow never has a poem made having a beer with dinner sound more distasteful.
I wasn't trying to ruin anyone's dinner drink!😂
The guys in the poem were the alcoholics who were at the local bar before it opened at 3 p.m. everyday except Monday (when it was closed)....I always wondered what they did on Monday!
This could have been titled "Ode to Misery". Reads very well.
Yeah...or the "Gathering of Drunks (G.O.D.)"😂
Sounds a little bit like a low-end version of “Cheers.” 😊
Ha! Kind of! 😂