In city lights on borrowed dime,
A job you hate wastes all your time.
You dress the part and ‘network’ well,
In curated tales you choose to tell.
Posing like a cool performer,
Editing with filters warmer,
In shadowed light, on barstool found,
Two nights are yours to fill with sound,
You rate the world in practised prose,
While your debt and doubt quietly grows.
So welcome, friend, to tonight’s shrine.
Now, what’s your poison? I’ve got mine.
Inspired by the writing of C. James Desmond at The Barman Substack
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
1994ever 