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A Joint Called Satan's Tinderbox
‘Twas somewhere near the bow’ry docks,
that squalid part of town,
in a joint called Satan‘s Tinderbox,
of infamous renown.
A dingy place, where the wicked met,
the hustlers, sots, and whores,
where gamblers, thieves and swindlers bet,
and the copper oft’ ignores.
‘Tis a place where Hell might seek recruits,
from a spot called oft’ to join,
that gath’ring place for thugs, and brutes,
in the city’s tenderloin.
A place where the duped are soon ignored,
and the shysters leave no trace,
where their cronies seek no just reward,
for demise looms commonplace.
Why I’d picked that night to tip a few,
is a mys’try, sure as hell,
but once in a while, in a fond adieu,
I’ve bid good sense farewell.
‘Twas half passed ten, in the Tinderbox,
on a raucous Friday’s eve,
with a drunken crowd from the bow’ry docks,
old salts on a three day leave.
This Mick named Corky tended bar,
while the jukebox blared a tune,
and the air hung rank like a bad cigar,
burning eyes, in the old saloon.
Those bottles perched on a mirror’s shelf,
chuck full of a rotgut brew,
bore two bit shots to stew yourself,
and the rest of that motley crew.
“So set em up Corky, keep em filled,
‘n toss one back for your health,
a drink to luck with your best distilled,
to easy women and wealth.“
Old Cork and I, went back a spell,
had caroused in many a port,
shared gals and a bottle of muscatel,
‘n a cell in a Shanghai court.
We’d sailed the ocean too many years
on too many scows and ships,
too many fights, ’n too many beers,
‘n too many broken lips.
A broken skull lets a bloke confront,
that mortal man, that we are,
so I scrape boats by the waterfront,
and old Corky’s tending bar.
Still, once in a while, I feel the yen,
to imbibe in a belt or two,
so I end up here, in Satan’s den,
tossin’ shots of the Devil’s brew.
The joint was packed with the harbor’s scum,
the rabble from the street,
from the bosun’s mate to the gutter bum,
and the sucker to the cheat.
They gathered here where the booze was cheap,
and the talk was cheaper yet,
‘cause swindling tars, like shearing sheep,
was an easy mark to get.
A gal named Rose put a lip-lock kiss,
on a mate with a shaky stance,
distracted him with a with her tongue of bliss,
then stole the cash from his pants.
They’ll find that guy in the early dawn,
wearing nil but a skivvy shirt,
in an alley, dumped by the Devil’s spawn,
half dead, face down in the dirt.
“So set em up Corky, keep em filled.
‘n toss one back for your health,
a drink to luck with your best distilled,
to easy women and wealth.”
The back of the bar held a tattered booth,
where the harlots made their fare,
‘twas occupied by a gal named Ruth,
doin’ a mark with curly hair.
She’d stay back there ‘most every night,
till the cash or the booze ran dry,
‘cause the randy sailor’s appetite‘s,
ne’er quick to pacify.
I paused to find a gal of my own,
some sweet little lady to woo,
a booth in the back, tucked in all alone,
enticed by a drink or two,
but looking ‘round, my sense returned,
I‘d only end up fleeced,
who plays with fire, oft’ gets burned,
and that’s at the very least.
“So set em up Corky, keep em filled,
‘n toss one back for your health,
a drink to luck with your best distilled,
to easy women and wealth.”
A game of cards, can end with death,
‘tween a cheat and poker shark,
and one brute sucked his final breath,
as a switch blade found it’s mark,
for three kings make a winning hand,
unless someone else holds two,
then a gambler’s forced to take a stand,
to do what men gotta do.
The money spilled when the table flipped,
‘n they faced off fair and square,
then the gambler flashed the shiv he gripped,
and the shyster said a prayer.
They gave them berth, wide open room,
quite ample space to brawl,
‘twas the night the fool would meet his doom,
‘twas the shysters night to fall.
A well timed lunge, a flash of steel,
and the blade was planted deep,
he slumped to the floor, like a dream surreal,
in a never ending sleep.
A woman screamed, and another gasped,
as death hung thick like a shroud,
and the dagger slipped the gamblers grasp,
as a hush fell o’er the crowd.
The swindler oozed a pool of red,
a telltale bloody stain,
deceased, defunct, distinctly dead,
the lifeless shyster’s bane.
‘Tis an unsaid rule in the Tinderbox,
that the blind and deaf prevail,
so mouths stay shut by the bow’ry docks,
for the dead man tells no tale.
Now the lifeless shyster disappeared,
‘n a ships crew turned up short
for the Devil’s law had persevered,
when he ne’er returned to port,
and little changed in the fray that night,
each eve much like before,
with a drunken crew in a barroom fight,
old salts on leave, ashore.
The joint still breeds an argument,
and stinks like a rank cigar,
I still scrape boats by the waterfront
and Cork’s still tending bar.
“So set em up Corky, keep em filled,
‘n toss one back for your health,
a drink to luck with your best distilled,
to easy women and wealth.”
‘Twas a dismal night near the bow’ry docks,
the depraved still oft’ regret,
in a joint called Satan’s Tinderbox,
where the swindlers pay their debt.
