O’ pretty bar maid at Vesuvio,
I never need to know your name.
A liquid companion from far below,
I know to her we’re the same.
What she pours is a dimension of know,
that is what they say and claim.
In a perfectly poetic world,
it would be you that stand and proclaim.
I am something more than special too,
not just another pretty dame.
In a perfectly other place,
a shower of you upon thee will rain.
If you are wondering who reads and writes by the window,
we’re always sitting alone and thought of as lame.
We’re never little more than a fuzzy shadow,
or another tipper who’s looking inane.
Little do you know for each of our drinks,
you are one click closer to Facebook fame.
dead beat poet 