To keep my evenings copasetic, I imbibe my usual anaesthetic
Draught beer may not be classy, but it’s cheap
Therefore, I end most of my days, in a somewhat alcoholic haze
Before I stumble home along the street

This establishment, so necessary, the pub, my friendly sanctuary
My nightly refuge from the daily grind
Where I commence self-degradation and blame it on inebriation
Until escorted out the door at closing time

Consuming beer my chief perversion, with women a possible diversion
My quest to see who will, and who will not
The obligatory, “No I wouldn’t,” followed by, “I really shouldn’t”
What is it, that they couldn’t...? I’ve forgot.

I am checking out the ladies, a mental list of perhaps and maybe’s
Of those who may, or may not, be so inclined
When I allow my gaze to linger, it oft invites a middle finger
I assume those gestures signify, declined

Therefore, I relinquish my sobriety, to obscure the harsh reality
Of a middle-aged and single, lonely man
Rene Descartes had it right, my sole significance this night
Is to drink... therefore I am.

In spite of my inebriation, I make attempts at conversation,
Moronic chitchat, boring women to the bone   
All my attempts at witticism, bathed in drunken cynicism
Explains precisely, why I drink alone

It seems I am an annoying twit, and consequently full of it
My hypocrisy is sometimes quite absurd
I indulge in judging someone else when I do not even like myself
Thereby receive the scorn I may deserve

Never a more prophetic word, this creature emerges from the herd
She stops and says, “How ya doing Mister?”
Then she rubs herself against my side, while I just sit there petrified
Because this gal looks just like Bigfoot’s sister

She displays her biker charms, tattoos up and down both arms
With a gemstone in her nose, she is a fright
She asks me while obscenely leering, “So how’s it hanging, Dearie”?
I answer, “Shrivelled and a little to the right.”

As evidence of my condition, when greeted with this apparition  
Firm proof my pickled brain cells are now in full retreat
I suffer instant mental flatulation, with this insane inclination
To remained seated when I should run screaming down the street

Now Betty is all chains and leather and asks if we can get together
She is a headlight, and I am feeling like a deer
Do I look this gift-horse in the mouth, when I am not so hot myself?
The answer is... postponed... to drink more beer

There is a mathematical equation, a scientific correlation  
Which applied when you are shitfaced, provides a kind of... cerebral mistletoe
A brain cell numbing inoculation, this prophylactic medication
Will transform a beast into a beauty, don’t you know.

That moment is subliminal, an alcoholic miracle
Magic time, a metamorphosis
From something ghastly to behold, into this month’s Playboy Centerfold
It appears I am love with Bigfoot’s Sis.

Then I fall, somewhat indiscreetly, the pub floor rising up to meet me
I lay here pissed and pie-eyed; drunk upon my arse
With no one else to save me, the tattooed lady comes to claim me
A somnambulistic closure to this alcoholic farce

“Et tu Caesar” my last breath, because it seems I’ve stabbed myself to death
That I’m hoisted on my own petard, is clear
When somewhere through my drunken haze, the last thing that I hear her say,
“I swear he’s looking better with every beer.”