Cock Bar Blues

Me and five of my closest
stuffed and blown up buddies.
Poker night at the Cock Bar, all-in.

I’m stinking of old stolen booze
and praying for a flush draw;
The Sentinels lost today.
I’m in the hole two and one half K,
it’s highway robbery, my stone-faced players.

Poker night at the Cock Bar, I’m all-in.

Staring down at my two, my three,
the giant clitoris I piss from.
And it all rides on the river, I’m drowning
slowly.
Nobody’s moved.
The terra cotta mud children.

Poker night at the Cock Bar, I’m in,
all-in.

I call on the Gods of flop,
“Don’t fuck me over
like that time
in Choctaw roulette.”
They do not answer.

Nobody has moved—
I look at them, they stare back,
I crack, “Why won’t you talk to me?!”

I finish three high and walk out
with my cock between my legs
and swear it’s the last time I trust
any plush bastard with an accent.