Can you imagine that bottle of Canadian whiskey on its last few shots?
And my crouched body and their comfortable nostalgia?

And thoughts of these dark times,
And his dark grave,
And finally a drunk dial to an old friend
Consisting primarily of "I'm sorry" and bad, drunken Star Wars references
As if a few Chewbacca jokes can fix this mess

And there's that familiar feeling of almost breaking into tears
And the tough-girl response of "**** this, pass me the whiskey"

And this hammered mess thinks,
I wish I could forget
I wish I could leave the earth
I wish I were Mr. Malachi Constant
And *******, I wish death weren't so ****** final

But then again, I don't think I've ever been alive
No matter how fast my heart has beat
No matter how sentient these moments have made me feel
And no matter how many shots of Canadian whiskey I managed to tackle
I think, like Frankenstein's monster, maybe I was born to be half-alive
While my mind circles back to these dark times, and his dark grave,
and finally a drunk dial to an old friend,
consisting primarily of "I'm sorry" and Star Wars references
as if a few shots of Canadian whiskey will bring us all to life

Are you a real boy, now?