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Drinking with the Federal Judge
It’s Friday night in the big city.
It’s time to unwind, time to chill.
A lawyer, a judge, and an oil driller
Walk into a bar. Really, they do.
The light in the bar is dim,
Not too bright, not too low.
There are no black robes here,
Just brown beer bottles.
No banging of the gavel,
Just the clinking of glasses.
No passionate legal argument,
Just passionate argument.
No one asks for cites
Except for football stats—
And even then, only for the ones
That seem a bit too inflated for truth.
So, you’re a federal judge, huh?
Well, la-dee-da-dee-dah!
I’d have guessed you were a custodian
Wearing a tie like that.
But what do I know?
I’m just a lawyer, Mr. Federal judge.
Still, as I savor my Stella Artois,
I see you’re not a bad guy, Mr. Judge.
I don’t oppose all government,
Just most government.
Even so, I know the creeping encroachment
Of the feds upon the states is not your fault.
Well, not your fault, mostly,
Even though you’re part of the “system.”
I’m a libertarian, see—the feds are out of control—
But you already knew that.
The judge nods knowingly, seemingly unconcerned,
As he regales us with his tales
Of a southern Illinois you might not ever see,
If you’re lucky, that is.
So pour me another, Lisa,
Please, and one for the judge and the oilman, too;
Soon we must head out
Into September’s waning hours.
Who knows what will happen?
We might not meet again.
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