I was riding a train, or maybe a bar
In the winter of ought, in the new century
With Millennium Bud, and phones without wires
And my gal had gone off with a life all her own
Stead of being a hunnerd percent homemakin' girl
And as tough as I was wasn't all that tough
And I noticed my Bud had gone flat at the end
Just like beers before 2000 tended to do
And I looked at the clock saying quarter to 2
So I went off to bed with myself
Well work had got slow cause I do it outside
So I made it my work to come night after night
The 'tenders were friendly and shown me a trick--
"Drink it faster," they said, "and it never gets flat."
I'll have to admit they were right about that
(You might even want to take note of this fact
But remember--like a guy also told me one time--
"You must keep in mind that you can't drink it all.")
An expert's approach, if there ever was one
To the problem exposed by the dreaded "Last call."
So anyhow one night a drifter came in
And swayed down the aisle in his long cowboy coat
His spurs making tiny Oooommmm-ish like notes
And the moon making sparkles on his buckles and irons
And he sat down beside me and ordered a brew
"How far is this engine takin' this rig?"
I asked him--a kind of a "howdy" I guess--
And he looked at me gently, like Clint Eastwood would
And drew his revolver, gave the chambers a whack
And said with a smile, "It's a circular track."
This puzzled me greatly and grieved me no end:
I had always believed we were going straight up
Or maybe straight down--it depended on luck
And the good lord's intentions, whatever they was
And then there was whatever the hell we might do
With the millennimum intelligence we was give--
But ole Clint he jes smiled, and s**ed on his smoke
Like he thought it was some kind o cosmical joke
And he sez to me, "Bud, there's no reason for hope;
But then there's no particular call for despair."
This astounded me more, I was shocked and amazed
And I must have looked startled, as he chucked at my chin
And ordered us both one more for the road
"Listen Bud," he repeated, "it comes round again
It goes over and over, the whole blessed time
Like wieners from Frosty, like Coronas and lime
Ain't no need to sweat it, grab on and have fun
There won't be no remembrin' when next you've begun."
Then he vanished, a wraith fading out in the air
And that there is his coat, lying over that chair
And you can believe it, or call me a liar--
While I have me a drink, warm my feet at the fire!