The amateurs have gathered in the bar,
some of whom can barely keep it down,
and at their yacky-yack and har-dee-har,
the shelves of mirrored bottles sigh, and frown.
The pro keeps to himself. He does not sneer;
these tourists in his kingdom pay the rent.
He gestures graciously to this idea;
his vodka smiles at him, beneficent.
At last the hour is over. Neon blinks
on empty stools; the bottles all relax.
The king abides, his forehead to his drink,
and waits the stroke that cuts the scene to black.
He shudders as it takes him: mirrored high,
sees all the bottles, sneering, empty, dry.