beauty is in the eye of the beerholder
you\'re looking at her there,
sitting across the bar
with a smile that could light
a thousand damp cigarettes
in the mouths of dead poets
and broken dreamers.
it\'s nearly 2 a.m.
and every bottle
is a telescope
into a universe
where she\'s a shimmering star
and you\'re just some slob
orbiting through the stale
smoke of your own nebula.
she\'s as lovely as the last round,
as hopeful as the jukebox
playing a love song
while the barkeep yells
that it\'s time to go home.
you know,
beauty\'s got a funny way
of twisting,
turning,
fading,
under the barlights,
hazy
like your thoughts,
like your resolve.
tomorrow, in the toothpaste spit
of a sober sunrise,
with a hangover that pounds
like a landlord on rent day,
you\'ll see it clearer–
beauty is a tricky thing;
you can\'t trust it
like a warm beer
or a cold woman.
it\'s just that tonight,
she\'s Aphrodite
and you\'re just a drunken
Homer, singing tales
to an empty shot glass.
you look again,
she winks
or maybe your eyes are just
blurry from the booze,
yeah, beauty is in the eye
of the beerholder,
but so is the monster
of a morning
and a memory
you\'ll try to outrun
with more beers
and more bars
filled with more false
goddesses.
just drink up, buddy.