He told the worst stories. There was never a point,
no rhythm to the telling, and nothing ever happened.
But you could always count on him to buy the next round
if you stuck around to listen, so his stories became well known.
He was pleasant, never a crank, and the other old men
in the bar said he was “touched.” The younger guys called him
worse than that. They drank his liquor, though.
Me, I never did. I did write down a thing or two of what he said,
as best I could remember. And because they were entrusted to me
without threat of violence or coercion of free beer
I pass them on to you.
I liked the idea of starting with the first sentence, but wasn’t sure if it was the beginning of a story or a poem. It has kind of a country song meets the Apostle Paul feel to it, though, which I like.