The channeled spirits of childhood trauma and confusion have spoken through inebriated fingers

I walk up to the counter

A place no other child encounter:

Bottles of rum and whiskey,

Behind the blurred enchanter.

I don’t know his age nor name,

And our families are not the same.

But that brother looked upon my father

In a sober shame.

For he let me walk up the counter

A place no child should encounter:

Bottles of rum and whiskey,

Behind the blurred enchanter.

He served me all the same,

For to protest would be vain.

It wasn’t the first time he saw me

Stumble in ‘motional pain.

For as a child, I was led to the counter

A place no child should encounter:

Bottles of rum and whiskey,

Empty behind the blurred enchanter.