American Legion

There's an old veneer of smoky tar on the institutional tables and chairs
and the awful country music puts a touch of humor in the air
and the brimming ash trays far outnumber the plates of chicken and dollar beers
and a grandmotherly smile tells you there's nothing to fear

Tell me another story about the good old days
Aging democrats are playing slots, and how they stayed up
til four a.m. drinking shots and making ugly toasts
to pictures of old dead venerated American legionnaires

St. Paddy's day at the legion hall and the gray and green streamers fly
from cold bare glaring fluorescent bulbs that hurt your eyes
and the pitted plaster ceiling seems infinitely more kind
than the scowls of disaffected vets who never got the chance to die

Everybody's been coming here every saturday night since 1959
the music's always the same: it ends at twelve and starts at nine
and the menu never changes: it's broasted chicken and, really, that's just fine
any significant change like that in our routine would ruin everyone's good time