Every night
Every night
He stood alone
In a shadowed corner
At the end of the bar
Nursing a pint
Whilst drinking scotch as a chaser
There were stories
He was a Necromancer
As evil as they come
Sinister as the devil
In a tight suit
Played the bar’s old piano
On a Friday
After happy hour
Made it sound like a baby grand
Moody and dark
With bluesy jazz riffs whispering
Through the booths
Enough to lift the roof
Off the old place
Nobody saw him smile
Even when the white boys
Wearing expensive ‘whistles’
From Saville Row,
Replete with silk shirt and Satya tie
Started to rumble
As if they had been born in the hood
Dancing the dog
In a roadhouse,
Nobody was Patrick Swayze,
Spilt a drink on the ivories
Trying to grope a clean looking thing
With an out of place
Look on her face
He soon had a gun in his hand
The left one
He was nobody’s, right-hand man
Left alone he would follow a different path
Nobody uttered a word
The breath froze on their lips
As they stumbled out into the night
Through a low-lit exit,
The door behind
The velvet curtain, on the left
Which only opened out
Never in
Nobody ever saw them again
But a legend was born