The Bar

Jack spends his time at a bar on the east side of town, Where every round is a Russian roulette, To make him forget the reason that he frowns; Drowning his emotions in a concoction of yeast and grain, Repeating the motions until all that's remaining is disdain for the man in the mirror. Maybe just one more and his vision would be clearer. Maybe if he just pulled the trigger, one more time, He would absolve himself from the guilt that pays him a visit; His best friends are spirits, He sits with them at the bar, While on stage begins a familiar composition from an acoustic guitar. He takes another sip from his red solo cup, Fills it up for a toast to the ghost in the chair beside him, As the song he confides in echoes throughout the room, He wipes away the tears that he cried to every note of the tune, As he waits for his spirit to guide him as the two of them commune. Jack waits at the bar, For the final revolution, To grant him the absolution that will never come, From the bottom of a bottle of whom to fate he would succumb.