The Drunkards

The noise of death is in the desolate bar
Where tranquility sits bowed over its prayer
And music shells the dream of the lover
But when no nickel buys this harsh despair
Into this loneliest of homes
And of all dooms the loneliest yet
Where no electric music breaks the beat
Of hearts to be doubly broken but now set
By the surgeon of peace in the splint of woe
Pieces more deeply than trumpets do
The motion of the mind into that web
Where disorders are as simple as the tomb
And the spider of life sits, sleep.