By Gregg Smith

One dismal night in a nameless bar,
while solving problems of the world
we may have gone just one too far.
And, caressing pints with fingers curled, thought better of going out.

No chasing of the here-say brews
through countless tap rooms of the town, we stayed upon our barstool pews;
and collecting coin for one last round, ordered a final stout.

The snow outside had changed to sleet;
we nursed the draught along t'ward morn, and listening to the weather beat,
dismissed all motions to adjourn
by ordering up two more.

We'd later wonder what was said,
and from where we got such sodden bills. Profound ideas all had fled,
cause surely we had our fill.
But you bought just one more.

Some poor folks will never know,
the warmth within the tavern room
while fending off a driven storm,
sweet solace from the winter's gloom
and comfort for the soul.

And who could ever ask for more;
than one last beer before the door.

� Gregg Smith