From a smoky southern bar

Phil Brady's Bar
Baton Rouge, LA

I must be morphing into a fucking Yankee. The whiskey-to-coke ratio in my drink is stinging my tongue like rubbing alcohol on an open wound. The shotgun cigarette smoke is overwhelmingly swelling the room and to my eyes it's absolute poison- acid burning them to ruins. Girls down here are more beautiful- the generalization that most everyone accepts, is mostly true after all. Gods Aphrodite prototypes.

The drinks are stiffer- you can taste the poison drowning your soul. No telling the horrid effects it's going to have on your stomach, intestines, liver, colon, and thereafter. But that doesn't concern me so much right now, really I'm just pleased I got a drink poured right for a change. My hands become much lighter, almost limp when gyrated against one another in an attempt to applaud the band playing. I wonder if my hands might just fall off, right here and now, drop to the floor like soggy biscuits. No good anymore. Maybe this is the end. My blood will soon fall to pieces, brain will atrophy and crack my skin like an earthquake, and I'll fall dead to the floor with my hands.

I realize that I'm being paranoid and I need another drink.
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...
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Life is an excuse to get drunk and sad
So we sing along to old soul songs when the world is going bad
and salvation ain't nowhere to be found
streets of mercenaries screaming the word of the lord we don't believe in, but fear everyday

and the billboards on the highway were from God and they said
"I'm coming, I'm coming for you. Will you be ready?"

they got a first class budget for judgment day
got a round trip ticket from heaven to this awful place.