In smoky bars and empty streets,
A poet’s soul found solace, sweet,
With every word, a life’s defeat,
Yet in the ruins, a heartbeat.

Bottles clink and typewriters clatter,
His verses rise, amidst the chatter,
In every line, a soul does scatter,
A raw, unfiltered life’s matter.

Through neon lights and shadowed nights,
His pen did carve the city’s sights,
A dance of joy, a cry of fright,
Between the wrongs and rare delights.

So here’s to Bukowski, fierce and bold,
A tale of life, both hot and cold,
In words, his truth is ever told,
A legacy that won’t grow old.