Slapped on the table: little bowl of what?
“Rum”, you say, mischief and sparkle,
Male and female, good and bad.
I drink. You smile.
I can hardly look at you;
I cannot hide what I cannot hide.
You’re not a chocolate box
Full of neat little spaces.
You’re a glass of rum slapped on a table:
“Well, here I am.
So who the hell are you?”