Charles Bukowski

Burn and Burn and Burn

I used to know a dutchman in a Philly bar
he’d take 3 raw eggs in his beer,
71, still
working,
strong,
and there I sat down from him
4 or 5 barstools away
in my 20’s
frightened
suicidal
unloved.
well, you know, sorrows beget
sorrows
burn and burn and burn and burn,
then something else takes
place.
I’m not saying it’s as good
but it’s certainly
more comfortable,
and often nights now
I think of that old dutchman—
I can look back on almost
a lifetime—
 
yet still remember him there
my master, then and
now.
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