Bartender Blues.

Lips like soft serve
eyes like a diamond drill
they said they'd kill for her
but lacked the will to make anything
that didn't stumble as drunkenly from their lips
as they did on the walk home.

And she could toss a man aside
quicker than liquor bottles to a trash can.
Intentions broken,
glass on glass shattered and resonating
crass fantasy inflamed by the ignorance of obliviousness.

She had eyes
and they were out to sea
when a million studs sauntered in
making passes based on how good her ass looked in those jeans.
They told her what she needed and it was always them.
Or their cocks.
They asked where she'd been all their lives
she said, "avoiding you. And your cocks."

And how many pillows were left saturated with tears.
How many monkeys does it take to make a man?
Or is it drinks?

She was in the rough
and tough enough to take it.
She'd had enough to know
she was sick of having to fake it.