London Drunk

I’m burning in this pit I dug myself in an hour ago
And up around the corner lies that bastard pub’s front door
And in my many changing moods and on similar days
I’ve cursed and spat mercilessly at the foot of her firkin
Grace chaos comes inevitably, like a monarch dressed in rags
Grinning like a maniac and splashing cider in my face
I’m going back to San Francisco to be finally at ease
As I’ve reached the heralded last rung and become a part-time London drunk
The Bristol Boys are lunatics but madness has its virtue
They all smash their pints and feign legless fights
Because it’s what they’re fucking used to
One autumn night in Birmingham after the band had played
We piled into that filthy van and got out of that place
By half a mile or half a minute I was a sunken, bloated slag
I puked up on the floorboards, my fucking jacket and pant-leg