At Thirty, the Party Is Over

Fact is,
the revolutionaries were cooler than the revolution,
the booze was better than the bar,
and that 'O My Comrade' anthem
sucked —
(though I did hum along to those corny love songs).
But what the hell —
the party is over,
the booze has run dry, wallets are emptied and, finally,
even he's left —
but, although the bill's been split, and they've all got their
and even though the place is deserted —
I know there's someone still lurking
wiping tables clean for the boss
remembering all the highs and shedding hot tears
someone who knows every word of the unfinished songs
someone — not him — who'll maybe
set up the tables by morning
who'll invite them all back
who'll rig up the lighting and repaint the stage —
sure. But what the hell.