It's last call America, finish your scotch. It's last call America, your clean shaven boys in their twenties, thirties, and forties don't drink scotch anymore, and they sure don't let sweat from rocks abandoning the glass dampen dirt beneath manicured fingernails. Say your prayers America, before an atheist with godlessly good lawyers topples your temple of worship. Drink up America, you are getting fucked, and the morning only promises the grim clench of a regretful face and mistakes made in the night.
Take two more shots, quick, before the drive home America, deaden the pain, go comatose for the boys in blue, because when they peel you from the wreckage, your whole body will be the same color as their uniforms, even if you climb out unscathed. Buy a lawyer America, spend money to delay the inevitable incarceration, the clammy cement of a sleep on the rock bottom, because you feel absolved of crimes attached to the lifestyle of a destructive lush.
Blame the Republicans America, blame the Jews and Democrats, the media, the spics and crackers and niggers. Blame the youth, the teachers, the leaders and the unions, blame the rich, the poor, the unemployed, underemployed and billionaires. Blame the failures and successes, the taxes and wars, the trade deals, blame it all America, but it's last call, so you drink up, and refuse to blame yourself. Curse the bartender if you must, but tip accordingly America, because he's been putting up with your hateful bullshit, and you scaring off all the good customers with your drunken nonsense.
You're card was declined America, you ran one Hell of a tab, you told a Cherokee he had a drinking problem then threw up on yourself. You owe your home, your job, your dreams, your promise, and most importantly, your word. So pay up, because it's all drunken babble and it's all just a way for you to escape what you owe. The TV told you it was OK, Hell grandma told you it was OK to escape, to deflect, to bury yourself in the pointless finger-pointing and endless gripes of a divided nation on a fifty year bender. Curse em' all America, whine like the soft spoiled brat you have become, blame the blackout on your tab, it doesn't change the fact that the binge wasn't on the house. Don't cry America, I didn't do it, I just said it, a cab is on the way to take you where you sleep. They will drop you off at the corner of Censorship and Fear. It's OK America, you won't die, you have been choking on your own vomit for over a decade and still manage to stumble in to the Stagger Inn, and hassle your favorite bartender, fate.
