We are stumbling on our feet,
’cause we guzzle our booze neat.
On the morrow we’ll be hungover a dawn.
Then our faces will look drawn,
also ashen-hued and long.
And our breath—a nice word for it is "pong."

The congeners exact their retribution…
stomachs in violent revolution.
Wildly spin and then fall on the ground.
Pick ourselves up and spray
food from yesterday.
Then fall to our knees and say:
“We won’t get fueled on gin!”

Although we know it’s dumb
to drink hooch hue of dun,
we still down it until we have our next fall.
We were a tad more sane,
we’d be drinking pure grain
that is crystal clear when in a glass it’ poured.

’cause congeners exact their retribution…
stomachs in violent revolution.
Wildly spin and then hurl on the ground.
Pick ourselves up and spray,
an encore to play
Then fall to our knees and say:
“We won’t get fueled on gin!

“Oh no!
We won’t get fueled on gin!”

The booze we like lets not penetrate light…
nearly as dark as a pol’s heart at midnight.
You must think were crazy; it’s all we’ll try.
Gonna go with Scotch, Bourbon, Cognac, and rye.

These nectars can’t be beat;
no ice pollutes them, ’cause they’re neat.
To the amber gambit we won’t say, “Bye!”
Now, a glass let’s all heft,
well on our way to getting tight.
Eschew beer—get that liquid bread from our sight!

But congeners exact their retribution…
stomachs in violent revolution.
Wildly drink and another pound
down a bunch every day
and night—that’s the way.
We’ve learned nothing, so we say:
“We won’t get fueled on gin!

Don’t wanna get fueled on gin,
oh no!

Meet the new barf,
same as the old barf.