My wife runs the bar, here.
So, what’ll it be? Beer? Whisky? Gin?
She won’t quit until you order something,
and leave with your head starting to spin.
The booze doesn’t keep me, here.
There’s more to us than that.
She’s got my heart taped to the wall behind her:
Past the bottles, and behind the tat.
Love is on the menu; now see, here.
The ‘bar’ is just a metaphor, to say she lifts me up
Higher than the hardest spirit,
from the lightest of her cups.
The Disinterested Philosopher Gets By 