A Bar for the Bete Noire It can be seen in the steady quake of the evening's yawn The last toast for bare fingers, ring-less masses of draconian saints The bulls-eyed shot glass emptied by the woman in white Verboten romps in the back room, next to the mop and bucket Between a bearded drunkard and plaid-clad choir girl While preachers sing pool-table hymns to the busty waitress Whose profile reads: middle-aged and engaged.