Austinist: A Poem for the Bros in My Divebar
Dingy bars are the greatest. Sure, it’s dark. Sure, it’s pretty loud and the jukebox only has two female artists. But the drinks are always cheap, and I've only gotten weirdly hit on once by this older dude that rather abrasively insisted that I don’t smile enough, despite not knowing me whatsoever. I love it. But recently, I’ve noticed an alarming and growing trend of young, attractive, preppy start-up looking bros stampeding my favorite holes in the walls, and it’s stressing me out. I want to see cute young professionals at West Sixth happy hour, when I’m looking more alive and can (barely) tolerate the rowdy drunkenness. I know, it’s a lot to ask, but here is my sonnet requesting that these bros get the hell out of my dive bars. As a forward, I actually tried to write this in iambic pentameter. It was really hard, and I probably didn't nail it. I’m not really that sorry. Poetry purists, this is Austinist. Go read some Shakespeare.
A Sonnet for Cole, Trip and Patch
At dive bars I expect a certain crowd, Weird beards and leather, ponytails so long. I’m not saying other's presence is disallowed, But large groups of bros? It all just feels so wrong.
You came in like a damn fraternity. Sporting striped button-downs and hip designer jeans. You were drunk and sang our U.S. anthem for eternity. I love the stars and stripes, but it was unnecessary by all means.
You all look like you’re named Cole or Trip or Patch. I heard you ranking girls, and it was hard to bear. I know drinks are just $2.50 and this place is such a catch, But why can't you just return to 6th street and drink there?
As a 21-year-old girl I’m not really one to preach. But I don’t care if I’m an ass, just go, I beseech.
Reposted from Austinist.