‘Set ‘em up, kid’ was your usual cry
as you sauntered through the door
with a look in your eye and a whisky sigh
and a voice that could sand the floor.
The girls in the back cleared out damn quick
for they knew that you were mine,
and anyone’s try for a fuck on the fly
would put their life on the line;
and none of the guys, if they were wise,
would call for a beer or a shot
while you and I measured eye to eye
never moving from the spot.
Now the tankards break as our clawed hands shake,
and our vision’s none too clear,
but our eyes still meet though our fingers ache
and what the hell if the beer
is flat or the spirits drip as we sip,
there’s no one in the bar,
and who bar us gives a tinker’s cuss
if we spill the whole damn jar?
Those days were good, but these are fine,
we cuss, we kiss, and we drink good wine,
just thank the Lord for that, my dear,
thank the good Lord for that.