|
A man walks into a bar, he says, "Give me a Bacardi and Coke!" |
|
The Back o' Beyond Repair welcomes the broken and the broke |
|
Blather hitches a ride on the back of second-hand smoke |
|
And the man, well, he'll be the punchline in someone else's joke |
|
I'll beat this drink, it's a habit I'll kick |
|
Please help me now, I'm gonna be sick |
|
Something hit me, I wound up on the floor |
|
Damn this Bacardi, I don't want any more |
|
A man walks into a think-tank full of hooch and future sales |
|
Mixing wish lists with extention plans re: Guantanamo jail |
|
Smell the solid beech, and a whiff of cannot fail |
|
And a gilt-tray chock with goblets dripping cut-throat cocktails |
|
And they drink a toast to Florida and all its air-conditioned hum |
|
And they damn the health of Cuba and they damn its bona fide rum |
|
He sucks a kalamata olive, spits out the stone |
|
And he mimics crushing people between forefinger and thumb |
|
I'll beat this drink, it's a habit I'll kick |
|
Please help me now, I'm gonna be sick |
|
Something hit me, I wound up on the floor |
|
Damn this Bacardi, I don't want any more |
|
The first man wakes up in the same bar, but it's different, as in a dream |
|
In fact it's someone else's dream, clean sheets and new regime |
|
Fidel burns as Nero roams, "Give the bar a zip code!" |
|
"See you..." "Si... C.U.", and it's one more for the road |
|
I'll beat this drink, it's a habit I'll kick |
|
Please help me now, I'm gonna be sick |
|
Something hit me, I wound up on the floor |
|
Damn this Bacardi, I don't want any more |