Tekster:
Swingin Utters Juvenile Product Of The Working Class

This place is empty except for the stationary bottles of whiskey and barstools still standing concussion headache from blissful evening of confusion

drinkin' beers in the pouring rain dupont circle summer again jack in' wheels just for fun I was only 13 watch your step, but it's always the same your

he was spoken to just to be put down and he was 22 when helped off the ground beaten black and blue when his color was brown and shining shoes in a dirty

I'm burning in this pit I dug myself an hour ago and up around the corner lies that bastard pub's front door and in my many changin moods and on similar

They've laid to rest morality, blessed themselves with immortality gazed into the eyes of innocents as the blade was pulled out merrilyI'd beg and plead

the day grows old and gray with rain skies and the troubles keeping you are likewise go to bed after television as outside the moon is turning crimson

I've been dishelved by this drink, by the pint's sight and stink never enough times to stop and make me think I've wrapped around some fingers, riddles

past the desolation in them is realized the drama of frustration taken paths worn down with life, sanctified with tension oh, the glory of a working day