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!
