Please, Thank You, and I'm Sorry

A remembrance of sloppy manners in SoHo

by Canasta Jones

ONCE there was a pool shoot, packed
With yellow ladies beer deliver
For me, myself, and Meatball Brown,
Playing cut throat with our livers.

Ball's aflyin, bounce and roll
Skipping loud upon the ground.
''Rack 'em up,'' says he with vigor,
and ''yes,'' says I to one more round.

The average shrinks, of shots to sinkers,
Volume rise and judgement fled
Uncanny was the total number
Of beers and smokes stuffed in our heads.

And loud talk we of ladies near
And hear they us unless bedeafed
By pickled talk of others drinky
Who shoot bad stick and stare at chest.

And finally time it comes to go
And teeter out into the snowy
But first pay we for beers and billiards
And offending almost everyone.

I say here, six states away,
That though it much more pricey be,
The package there of racks and tables
Becomes a kinder scenery.

Were there but world enough and time,
I'd go back there and toast the sound
Of raising some unsightly Hell
With Asians, beer, and Meatball Brown.

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