Another crowded night at Tootsie’s
in downtown Nashville, packed in
hip to hip, no room for elbows,
the band is good, beer cold.
The owner of the local hockey team
has taken up residence at the front
corner of the bar, surrounded by busty
sycophants about 30 years younger.
He comes supplied with a stack of one
dollar bills. Occasionally, between songs,
he takes part of the stack and tosses
them into the air to scatter among the crowd.
He smiles the smile of a gleeful bastard
at the frenzy created. I do not know who
disgusts me more: the rich prick
throwing crumbs to the peons, or those
down on the floor scrambling for a dollar.