This must be it,
What broken men drown away in barrooms,
But always comes back the next day,
Gnawing, painful loneliness,
Along with a headache.

I don't blame the men who turn to bars,
If there's no one in your bed to warm you,
At least there's something in the bottle.

Maybe I'm destined to end like them,
Of blackened mood and blackened liver,
It doesn't seem like such a bad prospect tonight,
To drink myself to a stupor while bathed in neon light.