Rum and pepper and spice and heat.
Drums that tell the heart how to beat.
Dicks and cunts and fucking tongues.
High fru clothes wrecked in low fru funs.
Here.
On the house.
Rum.
Games and players and bets and marks.
Masks and airs and would-be sharks.
Tables and corners and bars and dirt.
Old wounds mending while new wounds hurt.
Here.
On the house.
Rum.
Dead men dancing in living men’s bones.
Veiling moss across the threshold’s stones.
You can be early, but you’re never late.
Your time is kept by the Lord of the Gate.
Here.
On the house.
Rum.