The Bar Piano Man

by Dyl Elner about a year ago in vintage


The Bar Piano Man

He wakes up around 2:30 on a weekday,

Five PM on a Saturday.

If he has to, he gets up to take a piss

If not, he stays in bed a while longer

To jack off.

Once he gets his lazy ass out of bed,

He Shits, showers and shaves

Humming Schubert in the process.

He stops to pray before an Icon

Of the Virgin Mary tacked to the wall,

On the back he taped a Playboy Centerfold.

He wails as he prays,

With his hands on his heart and schmuck

“Virgin Mary, Oi, gimme’ a break!”

He stuffs his piehole with

Bacon Pierogis and Irish Coffee,

Then he gets dressed to go to work.

Tweed Coat, double-breasted,

Red bowtie,


And a pair of argyle socks.

He’s got an hour or two to kill,

So he folds his pants by the door,

Sits back and watches

Dateline with Chris Hansen,

Chain smoking Lucky Strikes by the pack.

At 7, it’s time to punch the clock.

He takes a cab to O’Mally’s Pub

On Ashland Avenue,

A Shitty old piano bar

Where he plays for a living.

It’s no Symphony Hall

But money's money!

As Leah the barlady scrubs the deck

And cleans the ash trays,

Morrie the Bouncer

Turns on the buzzing neon sign


“It’s Miller Time”

In white-n-red letters.

Kris the polock barman

Pours the Piano Man a pint

And lights his stogie,

He takes it over to the busted up

Bar Piano on the stage in the back.

As he warms up,

The usual, sleazy drunks come in.

There’s no game on the tube,

So tonight, like just about every other

The Bar Piano Man

Is the entertainment.

He plays for us a bit of Joplin and Gershwin,

That’s what gets us in the door.

He plays Liszt, and the ladies toss him their panties.

He goes all out, rocking that shitty old upright

Hours on end until the nighttime is gone.

At 3 in the morning, closing time

One of the barladies exits the WC,

Straightening her bra and panties

As the Bar Piano Man zips his fly.

The lady gave him her stockings

As a memento,

Just to indulge his foot fetish.

As the sun rises, he takes a cab home

To his flat above the pawn shop.

He leaves out a can of sardines

For the cat,

Strips down,

Then sleeps it all off all day.

This all repeats the next day,

A man’s gotta work, a man’s gotta eat,

A man’s gotta fuck

In order to stay alive,

And that’s all there is to it,

Ad museum.

Read next: I Am A Bullet.
Dyl Elner

Just a wanna-be writer, not much else. 

See all posts by Dyl Elner