38 Bottled in their neon caves, they rant

38                       

Bottled in their neon caves, they rant

and rumble.  No scent of women here.

Oaths explode.  The air is militant,

spoiling of cigars and stale beer.

 

Belly to belly at cards they brawl

harmlessly.  Thick throats guffaw,

or, sotted and ponderous, settle indoors

innumerable arguments and wars.