A bouncer-big doorman,
The czar of the gate,
Let in those in the waiting crowd,
Who seemed ready for a letting go,
And were clad in tattoos more than clothes.
The czar let in a blend
Of long legs and libido
To mix with the perfumed drinks
And snow that sparkled in the flashing strobes.
Pinky Osman, more Fit-Bit than glitz
Finally got to the czar,
Who gave him the once-over.
You got ID, asked the czar.
This gray in my hair isn’t ID enough?
Sir, we’re not checking too young to let in,
But too old.
There’s cardiac music in there
And sweaty dancing
And vulgar lyrics…
It’s not in your sweet spot,
You gotta be young.
Down the block
There is a low-key boite…
Chardonnay, soft music, pressed slacks.
But this was the place,
So Pinky peeled off a c-note,
And slipped it to the czar of the gate.
The velvet rope disappeared
And Pinky left the night for Crazytown.