In life I have found that Whiskey sours and old fashioneds Will always be my greatest vice As well as my closest confidant
The glass hits my lips And within the next ten minutes I am no longer compelled To pick my cuticles
I no longer feel the wrath Of anxietyβs unseen brush burn Or depressionβs mighty choke hold For once, I can breathe easy
Every fleeting thought of total apprehension Is replaced by feelings of contentment and bliss But soon, my eyes become glassy While my body grows weary
And I descend into a deep slumber Slowly sinking into the barstool With my head on the counter In a blue collar town