by Catfish McDaris
In the Garden of Gethsemane
eating Spanish onions dipped
in salt, bound for Bethlehem
Under the Jerusalem olive trees
drinking dirty martinis made with
Russian vodka tasting Beluga caviar
No buckets of money or nose candy
cocaine while licking golden honey,
only memories of enchiladas, paella,
Baked Alaska, brimstone eight balls
in a Texas tornado near the Alamo,
and dancing the Cotton-Eyed Joe
I’m headed to the Pawn Shop of Love
baby, because I’d rather be lonesome
than have your damn foot on my neck.
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