A poem based on a true story about a woman that I once knew.
|Be Safe Hun
A wisp of a woman at thirty and two,
Sweet Debulah played at the Rose.
A game of darts, as she drank a few,
She'd dance 'round and tip on her toes.
The Wild Rose Saloon was a short block away,
From her home, in the heart of the town.
At nine PM she would bounce and sway
By the jukebox, as quarters went down.
A coke with some rum, then outside for a smoke,
All the men in the bar gathered near,
To give her a light, or to flirt with a joke,
Deb would hug them, and buy them a beer.
She often played pool in her lacy black skirt,
And would prance, as the balls would go in,
Bend over to shoot so the boys would all hurt,
For her body, they'd love to make sin.
At around one o'clock, and three hours of song,
She would tire, and soon turn to weeping.
She'd sit on my lap, tell me all that was wrong,
As I kissed up each tear that was creeping.
She would talk, and confide that her daddy had died,
On the street where the Rose was erected,
And several years later, (Deb choked as she cried),
Her husband's own life he dejected.
When last call came around, we would all shuffle out,
And hang on the street for a few.
In a mist of a rain, Deb would wave with a shout,
"Be safe Hun," as homeward I flew.