The evening of January 16, 1920

I have too many pints to sell
They must be gone by final bell.
The liquor lines the shelves below
my oaken bar, this drinking well.

A crowd of final clowns does show
along the stools and tables,    though
some stand, preferring knowing when
their minds are numb,…   and down they go.

Who would’ve though this could’ve been
when sips of beer became a sin?
The temperance gals have closed us up;
tomorrow Volstead does begin.