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.