Why should I choose to live this way?
Sitting here in a torpid, drunken haze
my view of reality distorted
by the bottom of this dirty glass
from which I take my courage
my only friends those I find on sale

I take my Southern Comfort
to the porch and sit for an eternity
sharing lies and gossip
with all who bother to stop by

Jim Beam comes and lingers for hours
sometimes I take him in for the night
if we are able to find the bed
we usually share with Old Grand Dad
neither Jack Daniels nor Johnnie Walker
ever make more than a Ripple
when we kick T J Swan off to the floor

Why should I choose to live this way?
Because these blessed friends of mine
help me hold on to my sanity
they keep me numb to the pain I feel
everything passes slowly by blurred
distorted so much I can’t tell
what is reality, what is dream

These friends help me through life
one confusing day after another
not quite knowing when one ends
never caring when another begins

Life is quite beautiful here in this stupor
where nothing matters but my friends
I only wish that on those mornings when
I feel like lifting my head from the floor
that Old Crow sitting on the foot of my bed
would stop pointing at me and laughing

—–mid 1970s