Swim-up Bar
There are three pools on this resort— Tourists, sun-drenched, packed with rum. But the favorite, by far, draws crowds from afar, To where steel drums relentlessly thrum.
Bad decisions are here set freely in motion, With cocktails, Jamaican-me crazy. But a quiet detail is never disclosed— Secrets kept deep in waters gone hazy.
I speak, of course, of the swim-up station— Its stools beneath chlorinated shroud. Beer-bellies protrude, Midwestern half-nudes, Tequila shots are passed through the crowd.
Hours they perspire, in aquatic mire, Caked in SPF one-fifty. Panama hats crown sunburnt domes, The sitters stay seated, and shifty.
Piña coladas—one, then five— Red Stripes follow in plastic glass. A daiquiri. No, make that three! Still no one gets up from their ass.
They just sit, and sip, and stew in the brew, No victuals come; no reprieve. Tippling temptations, liquid accumulations— But no move to stand up and leave!
And if it’s unclear, I’ll spell it out here— While couples embrace and kiss: They celebrate new nuptials like rabbits in spring, In a vat of white, middle-class piss.
Posted Aug 3, 2025, 7:03 PM UTC