A Sunday Poem

I sat at the bar, lungs full of tar
From the smoke that enveloped the place
And gazed at the girl, her hair all atwirl
As I tried to remember her face.

She acknowledged my glance and her eyes did a dance
And yet I was drawing a blank
She started to stand, saw the pen in my hand
And back on her barstool she sank.

Puzzled, I sat, while chewing the fat
That sat in my beer-addled brain
When through the door came another young dame
And I questioned my memory again.

Instead of a stare she cast but a glare
And I wondered what crime I'd committed
The frosty looks from the ladies, I took
To mean rudeness my mind had omitted.

A bit after nine, again feeling fine
An old man sauntered up to the table
His mottled gray beard with ketchup was smeared
And his legs not entirely stable.

As he coolly appaised me I started to see
A fine story these characters could make
I bent to my paper, my pen as my rapier
To cut out the parts I could take.

And then around ten, the women again
Were brandishing swords of their own
Protruding from eyes which had narrowed in size
And were threat'ning to turn me to stone.

I finally quiesced and put on my best
Smile, which I fancied sincere
And ventured around to the enemy ground
Their reasons intending to hear.

"What, may I query, has got you so leery
of me, just a simple observer?"
She drew herself nigh and suddenly I
Was accosted with adm'rable fervor.

"Last week we all were watching you scrawl
In your notebook while you said not a word.
When you got up to pee, we read it, you see,
And your thoughts about us were absurd!"

"So now, sir, your writing, while sickly exciting,
has singled you out as a liar.
Here's what we think of your judgmental stink-"
And she set my poor notebook on fire.