The old man who’s sitting there next to me
he’s been coming to this bar where I don’t want to be
for God knows how long, like he doesn’t want to see
anything in this world but the glass in his hand.
He doesn’t look happy, he doesn’t seem sad
it’s just him and his whisky and maybe the band
I thought he was a goner until we got talking
and he told me the story of his life.

He smiled and his eyes shone a whisky glow.
He agreed to a drink and he spoke very low:
“You’re an alcoholic only
when you want to stop and realize you can’t.”

The young man who’s walking out on the street
doesn’t know yet what life’s gonna throw at his face,
he doesn’t know whom he has yet to meet
there’s spring in his step, he won’t slow down his pace.
He won’t know that he’s gonna end up right here
just him and his glass and maybe the band.
He’ll think I’m a goner until we get talking
and I’ll tell him the great facts of life.

So buy me a drink and I’ll tell you a story
though the story is always the same.
But I hope you won’t mind if I tell it to you anyway
cause by now I’ve gone far beyond shame.