Friday night just after 10
small town locals gather talkin shit
standing outside a dive bar dimly lit
loud obnoxious crowd of drunk derelicts
anxiously wait gossip and smoke cigs
faint amplified sounds of acoustic guitars
play practiced late night written chords
half lit vodka drenched musicians
with whiskey soaked rockstar ambitions
strum vintage Gibson’s and fender strats
songs about lost loves what if’s and regrets
behind a big shiny silver microphone stand
prominently displayed fancy cowboy hat
his handmade tailored studded boots
tap in rhythm sipping a glass of absolute
charred smokey voice like a burnt cigarette
personifies a James dean confidence