I didn’t want to get going
It was a humid morning in house
Frigid out
The clatter of opening stores
With freight trucks whipping by
The cold has a different feel before
The sun
It settles a little deeper
As the day opens up
The world does as well
I have seen in my own eyes
These early New York City mornings
When all feels off
Yet it is perfectly right
Discontent in the bar on a Saturday
Everyone seems to be okay
Except this one character
Late fifties sniffing for something young
Couple too many drinks he has
Flung
Back
Into his wasted soul
And hardened heart
This man is doing nothing
But playing the creepy old man part
His breathe reeks of alcohol and beer
Harassing the poor musicians to play
A pick me up tune
So he can swoon the younger ladies
Sickened
To my stomach as I see him rummage
Through these civilized people
He is garbage left in the summer sun
Ruining the night life of everyone
His hair slicked back in 80’s fashion
Blond with protruding teeth
Blue eyes that see
Nothing but flesh on the bones of young women
He is sickened me to no redemption
I am but inches away from bending
Flinching into a rage of spirit
So that everyone in this bar can hear it
He is a wasted soul washed up on the shore
For he is that
And nothing more
A Cup of Songwriting 