Fire department shuts down Gilford strip club for safety violations
Country matters. That’s what this is. Not the
sort of flames that I became a fireman
to extinguish if you get my meaning.
Sure, I can cite those out-of-date sprinklers,
the broke emergency lights in the john,
make ‘em put exit signs by the back door
and proper space around the kitchen grease vat,
keep ‘em chasing protocols ‘til their as
dizzy as a slippery pole dancer,
but this ain’t the sort of safety folks up
in these parts is worried about. They’d just
as soon the place caught fire with the horny
bastards in it. Let ‘em burn down here and
in hell for all they care. Now if a man
wants to eat fried jalapeno poppers,
drink bad beer, drool over low talent
tasseled T and A all night and then mount
his snow mobile and drive his revved up ass
home, it’s no care of mine. Nothing may be
a fair thought to lie between a man’s legs,
but it ain’t fam’ly entertainment and
I ain’t puttin’ me and my aging rigs
on the wrong side of aldermen this close
to budgeting season. Live free or try,
that’s what I say as I lick my pencil
and rush in to the collapsing building
to try ‘n keep this town’s tired marriages
safe from the fires kindled by tapered tush
and rebuilt boobs. Country matters, that’s all.
Read more of Gary Bouchard’s poems.
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