Confessions of a weary traveler

I got to the blue house. Roadhouse, open bar for losers of lost ways. You know what you are, you don't give a damn.
Inside, nothing is blue, red lights, near the same district. All is green and safe in the hands of Mr. Lewis, throwing his load around the bouncers.
Leave your worries and your echelon by the door. Over here, glory doesn't look back at you and say I am the source of your erection.
I look at the sad piano sitting at the bar. I ask the bartender and what the heck, let's give it a go. Play us a song piano man, shouts the overjoyed audience of one.
A man joins me with the tapping of his foot while making love to his absinthe. I look at the girl he is with. She is hard to keep down, like heavy drinks.
Keep in mind, I'm sure everything will work out alright as my fingertips touch the keys. Oh! more fool me.
I sing some gibberish, Bob asks me if it's me or the liquor singing. I say Bob, I am the liquor.
Bob leaves the stage, there goes my backup band. As he walks away I think over, looking at the light quietly taking over his long gone shadow.
Songs are often centered around life. My life has no meaning. Therefore songs don't have any meaning. I say that out loud for some reason.
Now all those eyes are quietly judging me, until someone says Man, you come right out of a comic book.
Shit, I pray, but it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.