This pub is nothing but a mess of fighting barbs and friends,
Can't a guy get a quiet place to waste himself away?
There's nothing better or safer to do, but watch the fights come to,
a bloody end, with a winner, and a bunch of cripple men.
There's nothing quite refreshing, as taking down a pint,
Of fire water brittle with barley malt and hops,
Getting drunk and getting laid, the creed of all us men,
O happy days are soon to come, once the sun rises at seven!
Chorus
"Now everybody's died, so until our tears are dried,
we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we'll drink some more!
We'll dance and sing and fight until the early mornin' light,
then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up, and then go drinkin' once again!"