The Best Chili on Skid row

Lady, I’m slingin’ the finest chili this side of skid row,
nasty as a whore’s goodbye, rancid as a week-old dream.
It ain’t AIDS, like you howl when you’re drunker than a wino’s liver,
stumblin’ broke, pockets emptier than a preacher’s heart.
Come on, crawl into the sewer, belly up to my pot—
cheap as dirt, hot as regret, it’s a bowl of somethin’ like salvation.
If you’re hungry enough, you’ll lick the spoon clean,
savor the burn, pretend it’s love or at least a paycheck.
Come mornin’, your guts’ll twist, scream louder than a jukebox in hell.
You’ll curse the stars, the spoon, the me that fed ya.
But it ain’t cancer, ain’t AIDS, just a bad memory,
like a one-night stand with a face you can’t unsee.
Still, you’ll carry it, heavy as a bottle,
‘cause down here, even the worst chili keeps you alive
long enough to hate tomorrow.