One and Two

 

Yes I told you, to mess with me will be like

dancing with the devil, you see I’ve died a

thousand lives over, every time my fists

bled from overuse, down at this bar called

The One and Two.

 

Take old Bill over there, he use to be the

drunk who beat up his woman, kicked them,

spat on their souls, he came here with evil

one night to take me on, he now has gained

total respect for who he called the

weaker sex.

 

I told him there is no weaker sex, it’s all in

man’s perception, I wrestled a bear once

and let me tell you, respect was earned,

fur flew, blood spilled, but we both gave

in and crawled to our corners with

total respect.

 

You see a brawl is something that every

man deep inside wishes for, but only

a few will dare take that road, and stake

their claim, instead many more will brag

about it, never once lifting a fist, wishing

they had the balls to do so, but that

takes true grit.

 

Many a John Wayne’s want to be,

until the crunch, I stood back to back

one night in here, with mean old Leroy

Brown and his bunch, and laid the hammer

down, taking on those clowns who

bragged about their toughness

all over town.

 

I always carry a spare white tee

shirt in my trunk, you see, they

turn into rags, torn and scuffed

with the blood from bar room

scoffs.

 

White tee’s I wear with pride, my

cigarette pack tightly folded inside,

ready for the next fellow who wants

to be a hero, and lift his fists from his

side, to smack down on my face with

his boots buried in my sides.

 

I’ve lived this life in the past and

sometimes had my ass kicked all 

over the class, never backing down

from nobody who wanted to prove

that they were a somebody, 

ready for a back room brawl.

 

The One and Two club is that

place where you were frisked

before entering, they want a

clean fight, not a shooting or

a killing, but it happened,

they came out of no where

at times and a life ended

where it often began,

in Hell,where the brawls

never end.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore 2013. All Rights Reserved.

 


Comments

One and Two — 4 Comments

  1. Sounds like a place in my home-town called, “Trout’s” It was renowned for fights, some of which were just because they wanted to fight…didn’t really need a reason. One night, my uncle Joe (whom we called, Mean Joe Buffalo) walked up to the bar with a pool cue in his hands where me and my cousins were sitting. He downed a beer, smiled at us, and then said, “Okay, i’m done playing pool. It’s time to have some real fun. He turned and broke the stick over the head of the nearest guy to him. True story! Needless to say, uncle Joe spent a lot of time in the pen.

    • Wayne, I believe every town and city in America has a bar such as we both described here. I had my fill of them back then, lived to get through it all, however not without much pain. I remember incidents in pool rooms all too well, I won’t go on to mention my adventures in them, however let it be said, that two cue balls in each hand at times came in handy as head busters. Your uncle and I would have had some fun, shyt I hated breaking my cues, but sometimes it was unavoidable. I’m sure glad those days are past me now. I know you and I could share stories all night long. lol

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