The smoke curls into the music’s soft beat,
Crushed plastic cups amidst broken bottles,
Guitars scratch while lights flash on dancing feet,
Swaying as they sing, fair faces mottled.

Sticky air matches sweaty tabletops,
Grimy shoes crunching to midnight’s raw throb,
The next table neighbors taking more shots,
Smell, puke on the floor from Kelly the slob.


This is nothing like your green mountain trails,
Where air is crisp and stars smile not scream.
***** or pine straw, ash or fresh gale,
Not *****, my dear, but taste the pure stream.