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With my toes dangling into the sea, |
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Into a fog, into a lonely drink. |
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Don't lift me up, |
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I'm a wreck, I know. |
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Still, I've got miles to walk from the cape along the coast. |
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And we'll play helicopter in the sand |
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And bite our thumbs at the acquaintances, |
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And make it known we're on par for the evening, |
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And take the butcher's knife through my words again. |
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Then in walk the mannered men |
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With their smokescreen yes. |
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And the sequined girls |
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With their skirts hemmed high. |
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And you will know from this |
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That it's all to start. |
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Our glasses clink, |
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And our plastic swords stab our olive hearts. |
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All night like a friendly ghost |
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We haunt the ins and outs of this house of our gracious host |
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And give thanks, but not much helps. |
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And so here is where we give the toast: |
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Cheers to the wives of the drunks. |
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Cheers to the husbands that tag along for good luck. |
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Cheers to the miles it took to get here. |
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Cheers to the the nerve it takes to forget who we are. |
|
Then in walk the mannered men |
|
With their smokescreen yes. |
|
And the sequined girls |
|
With their skirts hemmed high. |
|
And you will know from this |
|
That it's all to start. |
|
Our glasses clink, |
|
And our plastic swords stab our olive hearts. |
