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Skip the poem…listen to the guitar player

Sunday night is sure to feel uncertain
That is


an opening line behind the curtain
Suggesting what follows is staged, a wager


Odds


like the over/under…in the number of seconds,
In the length of a fading superstar’s encore


An


anti-ante proposition bet about how the booze
In the dressing room keeps getting younger, yet


That swill is a thrill that quenches, even after leaving
the audience thirsty, perversely
pour after pour
after pour



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