Whiskey Sours

She pours Maybelline like dry-wall into the cracks of her face,
and pulls on tonight's costume,
white with pearls and a little lace,
now all she needs is a groom.

The night-life is growing steadily
as she reaches her place at the bar,
A rabid Rapunzel looking for love
High on a bar stool with no princes so far.

She orders a drink

She puts her hand in her purse and pulls out a glove.
And it casually falls from her hand,
yet the gentlemen nearby still do not look,
so she changes her mind, makes a new plan.

She orders another drink

With measured voice she begins to croon
with the loud music until her voice starts to crack.
With sly glances she checks on the hearts she has won,
but sees averted eyes and an abruptly turned back.

She orders another drink and another

By now, the bartender knows her poison.
She gets her whiskey without saying a word.
He cuts her off after seven--or was it eight?
So, she hops off her perch and flips him the bird.

And though no one can hear her mumbled curses
as she makes her way across the tilting floor,
She rants about their "lack of class,"
and how there's "no chivalry no more."