Swiggin' toasts--how dry I was,
Spirits kinda low.
I leaned back and I bade him, "Yo!"
The cat was pouring out some rock 'n' rye--
"Gets ya high," he said.

But my loud sound wasn't bayed
Enough to raise above the sound waves of knaves.

My mate prates, "It's grave; I crave a taste. . .maybe five."

There's the barman, wait, I'll catch his eye
To come here and replete us
With a drink of sloe and rye.
"Mr. barman, tasty is redeye;
Yeah, we can really stow it
And it gives us a mirth smile.
We can't chill, man, we needs be boozy.
Fill me and my floozy
Till we're 'chilled,' i.e., woozy."

I had him make me a mix of Picon, brew,
Sharpened it with stout and a touch of [Tullamore] Dew®,
Mixed it up for me.

A nice pick-me-up. "Man, make it two!"
In my snout gin goes. . .in more streams; I'm tight.
I get the bar bill and I don't feel right--
My eyes are popping at how much we'd sopped up tonight.

There's the barman; when he turns his eye
We must quickly retreat us
'cause this tab's "holy sh!t!" high.
But the barman won't let us go "bye."
He says, "You two can go yet!"
And we notice a dearth smile.
Then he says, "Hey, I've got some news now:
I've called boys in blues now."
Then we're chilled in the hoosegow.

Law, law, law, law, law, law, law, law, law, law. . . .