I drink and drink, don't think,
Thinking is a thankless thing.
What is passé, has my sympathies,
But nothing more I can spring.
I go where no one goes, the many foes,
Want me cold and dead.
To make amends, or win friends,
I always party in my head.
A three-headed idiot I am now,
Or I could be something different.
The liquor's grains write the rhymes,
Why I am an ordinary gent.
And I talk too much, I lurch,
I toddle and as I said, can barely think.
The women that find me interesting,
Later disown their own fancy kink.
The party is young, and I am getting old,
Everything is short-term, crusty poor me.
What a tragedy when everyone's fresh,
Is that not a fretful travesty?
