I see I am the last man drinking in the bar.
I vowed I’d never be the last man in a bar.

The lovers, the pickups, the panicstricken couples
heard the night calling, It’s time!, and left the bar.

The ugly gogo dancer with the monstrous schlong
has vanished with his wad of dollars from the bar.

Even David is not coming back from his break
to pour for us our shots and talk trash at the bar. 

You’re lost. You’re lost to me. Happy or sad somewhere.
You do not think to think I’m waiting in a bar.  

This music stabs and stops the heart. The line is flat
although the rhythm is still six beats to the bar.

I would kiss myself if I could. (Stop crying, Jee.)
If I know how and why, my mouth would close the bar.