Last Call

I was riding a train, or maybe a bar,
In the winter of ought, in the new century,
With Millennium Bud, and phones without wires,
And my gal had gone off with a life all her own,
Stead of being a hunnerd percent homemakin' girl,
And as tough as I was wasn't all that tough,
And I noticed my Bud had gone flat at the end
Just like beers before 2000 tended to do,
And I looked at the clock saying quarter to 2,
So I went off to bed with myself.

Well work had got slow cause I do it outside,
So I made it my work to come night after night,
The 'tenders were friendly and shown me a trick--
"Drink it faster," they said, "and it never gets flat."
I'll have to admit they were right about that.
(You might even want to take note of this fact,
But remember--like a guy also told me one time--
"You must keep in mind that you can't drink it all.")
An expert's approach, if there ever was one,
To the problem exposed by the dreaded "Last call."

So anyhow one night a drifter came in
And swayed down the aisle in his long cowboy coat,
His spurs making tiny Oooommmm-ish like notes,
And the moon making sparkles on his buckles and irons,
And he sat down beside me and ordered a brew.
"How far is this engine takin' this rig?"
I asked him--a kind of a "howdy" I guess--
And he looked at me gently, like Clint Eastwood would,
And drew his revolver, gave the chambers a whack
And said with a smile, "It's a circular track."

This puzzled me greatly and grieved me no end:
I had always believed we were going straight up,
Or maybe straight down--it depended on luck
And the good lord's intentions, whatever they was,
And then there was whatever the hell we might do,
With the millennimum intelligence we was give--
But ole Clint he jes smiled, and sucked on his smoke,
Like he thought it was some kind o cosmical joke
And he sez to me, "Bud, there's no reason for hope;
But then there's no particular call for despair."

This astounded me more, I was shocked and amazed,
And I must have looked startled, as he chucked at my chin,
And ordered us both one more for the road.
"Listen Bud," he repeated, "it comes round again.
It goes over and over, the whole blessed time,
Like wieners from Frosty, like Coronas and lime.
Ain't no need to sweat it, grab on and have fun,
There won't be no remembrin' when next you've begun."
Then he vanished, a wraith fading out in the air,
And that there is his coat, lying over that chair.

And you can believe it, or call me a liar--
While I have me a drink, warm my feet at the fire!