50 (the barmaid's freckled hand)

Let me tell you what a liar I am

I'll tell you right now, right here, everything,

or, well, I don't know, maybe I shouldn't.

I'm more interested in you, anyway.

And isn't it always there? In the tinkling

glasses, laughter, and the barmaid's freckled hand?

Isn't it the grail mix of the mixed drink?

A liar, a liar, is a good man.

These men with the porcelain on the quay, / are trusted all, never not innocent. / Who could love a man who won't dance, won't sing? / Trust a man who trails his bowels, who knows, / our little losses—just the cheer of crows.