It's a rusty joint, that one.
Sick, drunk old men walk in,
and sicker drunk old men walk out.
The Neon sign has letters flickering,
in the mid-evening heat.
You can smell the booze,
It hovers around outside the bar,
The putrid existence of another few
unlucky chaps who never quite made it.
Some unlucky buck pulls in the back,
yellow drunk tags showing off his law-breaking habit.
He can’t help himself, it’s intoxicating,
the environment, the booze, the place.
You walk by and hold up your nose,
and ignore the catcalls made by
sick drunk young men near windows who think
that the girl you are with would fall for them.
All the same, you feel a little sadder then you did
before you walked by that bar.
Because you know that someone in it's crusty walls,
Is lost in his search for love,
and he knows, in silent terror;
He'll never find it.