Ode to The Charles, Over on Grand, From Back in the Day

I think
of all the clubs
I used to frequent as a youth
yours was the worst:
the worst atmosphere
the worst attitude
the worst service
and the worst treatment of the artists.
Just, in general,
pretty much the worst.

I don’t really blame you.
Someplace had to be at the bottom
and your club took the position
with aplomb,
elan, and some curious level of enthusiasm.
You seemed to treasure your spot
at the nadir.

Only the most desperate acts
would continue coming back
and the most naive of high schoolers
would drink the watered down swill
your surly bartenders served.
Your staff was never happy
and, though the waitresses’ outfits
were slutty enough,
they’d never put out
(just another bait and switch
at The fucking Charles,
am I right?).

I remember band after band
complaining about getting stiffed
of their percentage at the door.
I remember friend after friend
complaining about getting their pockets picked
their credit cards lifted
their condoms poked through.
I remember girl after girl
not going home with me
night after night.
Christ, what a shithole.

Eat a dick,
The Charles.
I’m glad you’ve dead
and if my abandoning your club
had anything to do
with your eventual demise
then I think the universe owes me
some kind of thanks as well.

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