A Snoot for the Fiddler

I pray this glamour never lifts

or fades—that’s an unrealistic wish,
but glamour is my grift.

I know the junko men, always got the best
of them—with their tricky grammar, passing me the fifth—
I pray this glamour never lifts.

Because petty is as petty does—I sniffed
the spirit-y scent of gold in the panning dish—
my foolishness the gift

that gives forever—spendthrift
wit that puts a toothless
grin on everything—hilarity that ever lifts.

So when you’re sad, and you feel you’re being stiffed
by life, and nigh to sleeping with the fish,
take up glamour as your grift—

you won’t regret you did,
as you listen to the fizzy yeasts bubbling in the mash.
I pray their proof will lift
my bowed-out glamour-riffs!