I was really quite unhappy, and my wife was feeling crappy,

and the pile of empty bottles made a mess upon the floor.

Since I'd always been a boozer, a consistent whisky user,

I was sure that I would lose her, lose her to the guy next door,

to the fat, ungainly loser who was living right next door,

so I hit the liquor store.

Ah, distinctly I recall it, there was no way to forestall it,

as each whisky glass would fall it left its shards upon the floor.

But my heart was filled with sorrow, for the bottles I had borrowed,

piled as high as Kilimanjaro, made it difficult to pour,

made it very hard to carry out this vast Plutonian chore,

'cause my arms were getting sore.

Now my wife found it annoying, for the booze I was enjoying

was quite clearly now destroying any good that might become.

As I sat there slowly thinking I betook myself to drinking

but the sound of glasses clinking made it easy to succumb,

made it hard to figure out what now was making her so glum.

So I opened up some rum.

But my wife was still bemoaning all the bottles I was opening,

so I found a can of orange juice and started in to pour.

As I poured it, nearly spilling, I was finding it so thrilling,

with the vodka gently chilling, chilling in my freezer door,

twenty-six big gulps of vodka chilling in my freezer door.

It's a drink I just adore.

At this point I heard her mutter that I'd end up in the gutter

and I felt my utter uselessness would drive her out the door.

But the only hope to give her was cirrhosis of the liver

and the best I could deliver was to wallow more and more.

And my marriage from that bottle that lies dripping on the floor

shall be salvaged ... nevermore.