Colour Bar

Stu and I stumbled out
of the Turkish heat and
into the United States of Air
-Conditioning.

In the Enlisted Bar, the
air was thick with pedal
-steel and pepperoni pizza
for C-Dubya night.

A thin-lipped guy was
on the decks and the
name on his OG’s said
Airman First Class Jarmusch

though he was no relation.

We didn’t crack the Blues
Brothers’ joke but drunks’
telepathy made sure
we both smiled at once.

We’d left the raki -burn
behind in the shanty town
outside the base with two
proposals of marriage for
each of us and a
deposit –in dollars-
on a lurid carpet.

Stu looked at me
and said ‘let’s ask him.’

So we did,
Would he play a David
Allen Coe song
‘If that ain’t country’?

‘You can kiss my ass.’
He gave the rest of
the song title, but he
meant it. Said he
couldn’t play it: ‘Y’all
know why – ‘cause
it’s got the N’word.’

So we looked around
and asked 'just who are
you going to offend?'
Truth was it was just
Whitey in there. Not-Jim must
have read our minds,denied
there was a colour bar.
I said, ‘no, just a bar
for the coloureds, hey?’

So ESPeed as twats
we shouted ‘catch’ and
Michelob-bed our
beers at Not-Jim and
ran for the border and
the Brit Ghetto.