My date of birth kept in memory of a bartender (pt. two).
My date of birth kept in memory of a bartender; the only one in town, the dull dye smother of cigar fixedly closes the ceiling above and the draught of alcohol is on my bleary lips. This is the taste of every tomorrow and I´m not asking for more or less. "Hey, potboy! Hand me a second one, I´m boon and the sun is late and I won´t barricade my being." My hands are under a hammer and I don´t even care, it´s your counteract to miss, a small fortune of my life. Lonesome I watch the desert train run over my very last dime, and my crossing from the town is crowned. Lonely I sag watching the minute alley squat... I´m humble in this world but I always got a seat to endue and when, oh when my bottle gets empty I´ll be ready with another one and so on I go through the end and the timeworn scarecrow will sleep as I swill my last drops in the moldy duct of nowhere.