I was sitting on a barstool, closing time was near
when an old coot sat down and ordered up a beer.
Rumpled and wrinkled, he asked what was new.
I said nuthin,’ How about you?
He spoke of his divorce; he was out on his ear,
been sleeping in his car for more than a year.
He moaned he had screwed up his life,
lost his home, his friends, his wife.
”I had it all when I was young and lookin’ fine,
but now I’m down & out, friends are hard to find.
Only three things count when times ain’t rosey:
cold beer, pussy, and a can of anchovies.
“Cold beer tastes good when I’m feeling blue.
It’s cheap and helps me forget Betty Lou..”
He emptied his glass and looked up to see
if he could get the next one on me.
My new friend took another big swig,,
said there’s something better he digs.
”Beer is great, but make no mistake,
nothing beats a folded pancake.”
So much truth I could hardly take it in.
You say it so eloquently, where have you been?
I understand your beer and pussy crusades
but why do anchovies deserve accolades?
He stroked his chin and thunk over my question,
then dove into what was his real obsession.
He said the little fish were rich in vitamin E
omega fatty acids, protein, and B.
They drop your bad cholesterol, and raise the good,
build strong bones and teeth, that’s understood.
With the wisdom of Gandhi, he spouted out more:
”Eat ‘em on a Caesar or if you drop ‘em on the floor.”
”Gnash their little bones, let them slide on down.
Hairy, salty critters — beats all I have found.
Your friends won’t like them, but who gives a shit.
Throw ‘em on a pizza and you won’t have to split.”
I stumbled home after eight more rounds,
collapsed on my bed as the ceiling spun round.
That night I dreamed a sweet sweet story
of cold beer, pussy, and the slimy, yet tasty…
anchovy