Young Writers Society

I saunter up to the deserted bar,

order a Stoli vodka and sit down on the stool,

a woman is eyeing me from afar.

I better try hard to not act like a fool.



She's tall, she's blond, a Slovakian beauty,

she walks over, her eyes an icy stare.

Her eyes a steel blue, cold with cruelty.

She says hello to me over the soccer game blare.



"I'll have what he's having," pointing to my shot glass,

"straight up as well," she tells the barkeep.

She knocks it back fast, this girl's no weak little lass.

Leans in close to me, her scent runs deep.



"Now my fine fellow, you seem to have fine taste,

per chance," she whispers, "per chance may you be a Pole?

Now, now," she points to my glass, "you can't let that go to waste."

I knock mine back as quick as she, it begins to take its toll.



"Yes my dear, I am," I tell her with fresh courage,

"Born and raised in Warsaw, where it can get no colder.

Raised on dry bread and ma's homemade porridge.

Lived there till I was eighteen, and not a day older."



"Haven't been back since," I finished," what about you?"

With a lengthy pause, she asks me, "how about another Stoli,

it would be good for our blood, and will you buy me one too?"

So she begins, "my mother's a Slovak, dad's American, named me Molly."



What a horrid name, but I kept my mouth shut,

and listened politely to her story, as she did mine.

As I listened to her story I couldn't help get the belly fluts.

But I think that was just the liquor and that suited me fine.



Cause all this girl was, was a vodka vixen preying on a regular guy,

and I've fallen into her man trap and I need to get free.

Think I can get out of this, so I got off the stool, the girl looked at me.

So I ordered her another drink, and simply said goodbye.