Bacardí , ooh la-la (yuppie kicked in the shins)) half of my head is in Bacardí , ooh-la-la ( new york yuppie kicked in the shins)) she took me back to Finca Vigia , la-la-la ooh, but my head is in content workings of a message in a bottle (without, the Police)... there's something about her pride on mixing cola and lime... (ooh la-la) Bacardí, ooh la-la (new yorker yuppie kicked in the shins) she didn't walk up to me with 'you "need" a drink?' (like that Frank Sinatra quote about a day well spent and feeling even better after a martini)... (when she came in the room i forgot i was sleeping) she said there's a lot of boys she can do with (ooh) (but i can't without you) i knew she forgot in a minute about the ginger Scotch lass ms. amber... (that summer night that turned to be every night of the entire year from then on in) and mama says i'm a drunk... but she doesn't mind a drunk that steps up to do the dishes, cook... and washes the toilet with bleach... after telling her to the question: why are you sighing, puffing like a red-riding hood like that? eased up? what from? took a **** like a german zeppelin just dropped a bomb on London during the WWI night raid... **** me... funk! ****! bosh! sank like a meteor or a grenade into the water... but **** me, you ever read the mini story on these bottles? ha ha... the Cubans call the distillers... maestros! it's like symphony for them! de ron Bacardí... ahem... maestro de ron Bacardí! one night, i'm allowed that... given that i already know with tender meat poetry... like you do with tender meat in general... you tenderize it.