Flowers, Balloons

these petty saloons

are filled with men, some tipsy

 

they boast and they batter

their clothes in a tatter

from voyages never thought taken

 

and as for the women

the widows the verman

they sit and wait patiently

 

for their folks and the jokes

and in debt they soak

no money, not even a sum

 

so they sit in this pit

drunkin and lit

from the fiery burn of the rum

 

they sing and they jostle

their people, their hostile

they never change their ways

 

no one cares

no one even dares

because they shoot daggers in stares

 

Flowers, balloons

these petty saloons

the state of these men stay dazed