By the eighth Guinness down, they're closing up shop.
I guess it's time for me to leave.
So now I'll walk the old town I forever will call my home
with a guitar on my back and a heart on my sleeve.

And I know as long as those streetlights shine,
I'll have a place to call mine.

Within a mile of home, the stench of booze on my clothes,
I think of what will not be there as I lay alone
in my bed turned away from the cold grave on your side.
And I may wait for all time, or I just might end up dead.

It's never gonna get any better, but it can't get worse.