In the ****** of dark bars where
men talk over scars and growl
at their beer, it is here I'm at ease,
here where the moon shoots at
dust on the floor, where there's more
in the air than stale cigarette smoke.

In the back room, the tap room,
the slap them down rap room
I play a tune on the guitar
old men
spit out their catarrh into a
china spittoon.
I watch in awe as the doxies turn foxes and
hunt out their prey.

Never a day here, always a night,
a queer thing though,
I always go when it's light,
this place seems so right.

****** can't be so wrong when I long to be there
smelling the stale smoke that sits in the air like
some buddha who cannot be bothered to move.

It's like I'm never too far from the scarred men and the
dark bar and the panelling, ***** grey,
which peels away the day
and turns it into the night,
it's got to be right.

I play another tune in
the slap them down rap room
and growl at the bar
for a beer.