Bottom Shelf

Don't even look up at me cherry vodka
you cheap little tart
who will let anyone drink you
sitting there on the bottom shelf
with your transparent clothing
and it’s glittering twinkle in the showroom light.

You chippie, little bawd
waiting patiently for your next john
to pay to have you or your sister or your mother-in-law two bottles down
it’s all in the family and none of you care
which will be next to intoxicate with your clear grain proof.

You cocky, little louche
you know all you have to do is sit there
and your john will come to you hungry like the wolf
while you wait inexpensively affordable
even after fees have been paid on bubble gum and toilet tissue
your thirty-five percent spirit is an easy sell.

I just wanted to let you know that you stink to high heaven
and your flashy flavor is more like a disgusting fruit medicine for almost-cancer
and the most recent fashion of the common cold
and that without you I could either die of boredom
or be feeding the hungry in my spare time.

I hope you can sleep at night
You self-possessed, promiscuous little hustler you.