Proletariat moonshiner, lost in scandal’s rock solid breast
Waiting for something lucky to pass your way
Waxing jovial, mixing publican
Bootleggin Tempter
Your eyes dance across lies,
Open tip jar laughing
You make lovers wary, crush tears to ice
And rouse weak mean brave,
Hero to toilers and hustlers alike
But when the crowd erodes
And fluorescent sins rise, making way for broom, mop
It’s your chapped hands and sullen mouth I crave
Against my breasts and thighs
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