Tip the barmaid in tight jeans.
She’s my friend.
Been to hell and back again.
I’ve been there too.
Girlfriend, I believe in Gandhi.
But some nights nothing says it
quite precise like a Lone Star
cracked on someone’s head.
Last week in this same bar,
kicked a cowboy in the butt
who made a grab for Terry’s ass.
How do I explain, it was all
of Texas I was kicking,
and all our asses on the line.
At Tacoland, Cat flamencoing crazy
circles round the pool
player with the furry tongue.
A warpath of sorts for every
wrong ever wronged us.
And Terry here has her own history.
A bar down the street she can’t
a French café in Austin
where they don’t say—entrez-vous.
Little Rose of San Antone
is the queen bee of kick-nalga.
When you go out with her,
don’t wear your good clothes.
But the best story is la Bárbara
who runs for the biggest kitchen knife
in the house every bad-ass domestic quarrel.
Points it towards her own heart
like some Aztec priestess gone loca.
¡ME MATO!
I tell you, nights like these,
something bubbles from
the tips of our pointy boots
to the top of our coyote yowl.
Ya’ll wicked mean, a voice at the bar
claims. Naw, not mean. Shit!
Been to hell and back again.
Girl, me too.