Last Mojito, The

The Rowdy Boys

Bart Edelman 57 The Rowdy Boys Party on and on and on Until the clocks run down And the sand spills over The twelve hands of time. They make no plans for futures, Ripe with nothing but renown— Ageless sages who know Never to stop at any town That closes before dawn. One by one they drink The tumescent nights away And tell stories to quench The thirst they attempt to slake Throughout their restless lives. And what of the girls— Stuck in their leather boots— Gazing longingly at rakish faces In a circle around them. Will they soon recover From such secret lovers And that first taste of spring . . . The name of each rowdy boy Forever engraved like a stamp On their sweet young tongues. ...