Ian, can I have a drink
so I can choose not to think?
I don't care if it's wine, whiskey, run, gin, or beer,
I'm not promoting a positive message here.
I say this pointing at my chest,
Bukowski said to die is to die is to die
and that suits me best.
I'll ignore the bells ringing in my head,
ignore memories of nights I was nearly dead,
rely on what my liquored brain reports,
drink cheaply until what is clear soon distorts.
You see, I'm too broke to go to my favorite bar,
I'll just lay in this park cause I can't make it that far.
It all comes out eventually, as either doom or rhyme,
so pass me the bottle, Ian, we don't have much time.
Sometimes it takes just a touch,
but most of the time it never took much.
You went from blues clubs to being stranded on the road.
I went from security to the gutter; we both went alone.
You left friends and lovers both far behind,
and, baby, I left everything when vodka drove me blind.
It little profits an idle drunk
to look to the empty bottles where his fortune sunk,
and wet for wear, he cry a river of tears
washing across miserable seconds and wasted years.
My God, Ian, this is such stupid stuff,
I've chased this voice long enough.
It seems there's nothing left to do
except to drink and drink until we're through.
I remember when I was young
this poison was bitter on my tongue,
ate at my throat, drained color from my skin,
my body turning into a monument to what could've been.
That cup was fine filled, but began to overflow;
it took us too far, it drug us too low.
We blamed it on women who left us, that was no good.
We blamed it on friends who did all they could.
We blamed it on the police, and found some reason there,
but the only time we talked about it
we were too drunk to care.
When we looked to ourselves, we saw what we couldn't stand,
so let's forgive and forget, let's get a bottle in our hand.
But even if it's the strongest stuff,
it'll never be strong enough.
Ian, can I have a drink?
I've left my liver in your bathroom sink.
My body's aching, I can't get out of bed.
I'm half mad with sickness and unmentionable dread.
What was once strong and steady now won't stay still,
let me have one last drink though and I'll have had my fill.
I don't have the time or patience to talk about last night,
but it's just as well, cause I don't remember things right.
We know God loves a drunk, that's what the song said,
but if I start to stagger, God will need to find me a bed.
And at ten in the morning, you'll know where to find me,
I'll be looking for something to beat and blind me.
And if that bottle should ever go empty, my drunken brother,
don't worry ---- where one bottle came from, there's always another.