On the Third day…

With a head full of Jack and a pallid demure

I’ve been sick through the night and look shabby, I’m sure.

But the reason I drank such a healthy supply

Of the old number seven? Well let’s tell you why.

In a bar, down the road from the hotel we stayed

Neith an Irish rambunctious New Yorkish facade

Where the barmaid entices her punters to drink

With a flashing white smile and a cheekysome wink.

The Jack flowed so loosely, as loose as the chat

(Well you know how it goes when the lads get like that.)

And as time marches on with the craic and a laugh

And the only thing left is your checks autograph

But you look through the eyes of a pissy old drunk

And you realise the saving you had have just sunk

With no cares and no doubts that you’ve had a great time

And you’ve puked all the Jack back, before closing time

In your bed you’re beginning to think it was wrong

To way lay to the alcohol falling headlong

Into deep midnight sweats that can make your head shrink

And you’re forced into facing head down in the sink

But no alcohol comes from the wrenching and pain

It’s just water, you’ve puked all your cash down the drain.

Do you care? Do you fuck. It was budgeted for

So the money is gone, but you know you have more

But again with a head like a foot makes you think

That I don’t want to go for another big drink.

Now you sit in your room and you contemplate life

Was it worth all the trouble the stress and the strife?

So you close your eyes tight and you think of a plan

You’ll stay sober tonight, but the morn, you’re the man!