I’m generally not a morning drinker
Said the gold-tooth man to the barkeep
Ordering his second gimlet
The writer works at the lush life
Out of compulsion
And oh he carves himself in two
In which we meet the sly detective
Mixed up in a case he’ll provide a getaway
For an old friend
He tails a drunk who’s a paperback writer
A bo’le rage fighter
And oh, his lady such a prey thing
He carves himself in two
The morning drinker keeps them coming
Makes a study of the ice as it cracks
In the glass beneath the poison
His wife is dying
He keeps from crying
Harnessing his pain
To all the characters he’s made
And he gives each one a name
And when he drinks alone
He talks to them out loud
For love’s a word
For love’s a word
The detective’s on a toxic cocktail
Two parts mistrust and one part lust
For a certain woman
He can’t resist all her wild advances
Her tribal dances
Her husband in the next room
As their love begins to bloom
But he cuts their dalliance off too soon
Between the millionaire
And the man in the mug shot
There is an unwri’en agreement
That anyone anywhere can be bought
It is a path lined with
Blood, money, and deceit
The brighter the writer
The lighter the touch
As they offer their cunning critique
The morning drinker’s on the beach now
Sca’ering the ash from an urn
With a splash to test the water
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