Talking to Myself

So my niece Bambi
posts a beautiful note about a man 
she tends bar for:

“Not more than three beers max in a whole day.
I think he’s schizo, but I’m not sure.
He carries on non-stop conversations with himself,
but can also carry on a hell of a conversation with you.

Tuesday he came in in fine form,
just a-giggling and chatting away,
smiling and full of some of the best one-liners.

He even took out my garbage while I sat by the bar.
When I told him he didn't have to do that, he said,
‘That's okay, what else am I gonna do, set around and talk to myself?’

He played ‘I can't Drive 55’ on the jukebox,
and he was singing it, and after the chorus he says,
‘Well I can't drive but I can run 55,’
chopping his arms by his side really fast, laughing.

I went back to check on some guys in the pool room,

and I said, ‘You guys alright?’ and he says,
‘You talking to me? Oh no, wait, that's my job.’

Chatting away, he sighs, and I hear him say,
‘My god, this conversation sucks!’

Laughing with you, Bud, not at you.
I know it doesn't happen near enough.”