The regulars retell stale jokes, their lame
Attempt to chase away the purple funk
That makes each Friday night seem just the same.
They laugh, and watch each other getting drunk.
The weekend's burdens loom, a dull regime;
Saturday's chores and Sunday's stifled grace
Brood grey and tattered, like a formless dream
That fades from memory and leaves no trace.
Frustrations tear the drinkers to the core,
Each one is trying harder to downplay
The crushing loneliness they can't ignore,
While pushing their own neediness away.
The jukebox keeps on playing one sad song;
They hardly notice, yet they sing along.