Drink up, Mister Bailey,
Your scotch has lips paler than yours
And the moon is howling brighter
Than the shine of a dime
Spent on the sweet succor
Of the candied poison
You still suckle,
Splendid as the white hot stars that
Scream maddening blindness
Into the silent pitch
And the depthless pools of black
In your surrendering eyes.

Drink up, Mister Bailey,
The wolves are back,
Backed by bleeding broods
Brooding in the bar;
It isn’t just your wistful warped
Reflection dimmed by dirt
In the half-chipped mirror
Behind the bar.
The warmth in your belly
Is the gift of ghouls and gods
Whose promises of the world
Died like your deadbeat dad.

Drink up, Mister Bailey,
Red Riding Hood’s put on her rouge,
She’s inviting you to tango
On the sordid street corner,
Begging you to hit a green light, gyrate,
And pass ‘go’ while you’re still lucid,
Lucky lord of the lost, you.
But you’re a day drinker, darling and ******,
And the fogs and fears serve to
Mend your mind
When the moon refuses
To rise.