And so we’ve had another night
Of poetry and poses,
And each man knows he’ll be alone
When the sacred gin mill closes.
And so we’ll drink the final glass,
Each to his joy or sorrow,
And hope the numbing drunk will last
Till opening tomorrow.
And when we stumble back again
Like paralytic dancers,
Each knows the questions he will ask,
And each man knows the answers.
And so we’ll drink the final drink
That cuts the brain in sections,
Where answers never signify
And there aren’t any questions.
I broke my heart the other day,
It will mend again tomorrow.
If I’d been drunk when I was born
I’d be ignorant of sorrow.
And so we’ll drink the final toast
That never can be spoken:
Here’s to the heart that’s wise enough
To know when it’s better off broken.
And the tin pan bended, and the story ended.