I think it was ’bout half past five
The hour before the sun took form,
I think I laid on half a couch
My head still spun from all the shots.
I don’t quite know in which order
I gagged and spat and coughed and yawned,
Yet in the darkest before dawn,
Amidst the silent anarchy
Of clouded senses and sadness
A portion of my mind was clear.
So much that night I don’t recall
And yet I can’t seem to forget
You—the reason why I drank at all.