Egressor

by Frank William Finney

The pub, half-full on a Tuesday night.

A songster sang acoustic blues,

but soon the strings slipped out of tune,

and then the mike went on the blink.

I lost the mood – left tip and drink

and headed for the Bull Dog.

No sign of life. The lights were out.

Graffiti mocked its rolling gate.

Signs that say the place went bust.

I wonder where they moved the band?

I wonder where I’ll head to now?

Better make tracks and head downtown

before the taverns close their doors,

and all the music’s

over.