The bar is wooden, dusty, and worn.
For gotten memories, the walls, adorn.
Yellowed photos of heroes and fools,
smile down upon weathered stools.
In this room, the locals gather
to work themselves into drunken lather.
They look back on days of yore,
speak of Magic, Bird, and Bobby Orr.
This crowd is rough, proud, and strong.
Their work is hard and days are long.
They sniff at Cosmos, they think them queer,
preferring draughts of domestic beer.
There's Sully, Obie, moms, and pops.
There's students, teachers, thieves, and cops,
of ever y color, r ace, and creed.
They'll pour a drink for any breed.
The night will end, they'll settle their tabs,
and file out to waiting cabs.
Another night of joy and sorrow,
becomes a hangover tomorrow.
But on the bar, the last pint stands,
which many pass, but under stand,
that pint is for Mark.
Killed in action.
Afghanistan.