Last Call - Bill Hicks

I was riding a train, or maybe a bar

In the winter of ought, in the new century

With Millennium Bud, and phones without wires

And my gal had gone off with a life all her own

Stead of being a hunnerd percent homemakin' girl

And as tough as I was wasn’t all that tough

And I noticed my Bud had gone flat at the end

Just like beers before 2000 tended to do

And I looked at the clock saying quarter to 2

So I went off to bed with myself

Well work had got slow cause I do it outside

So I made it my work to come night after night

The 'tenders were friendly and shown me a trick--

«Drink it faster,» they said, «and it never gets flat.»

I’ll have to admit they were right about that

(You might even want to take note of this fact

But remember--like a guy also told me one time--

«You must keep in mind that you can’t drink it all.»)

An expert’s approach, if there ever was one

To the problem exposed by the dreaded «Last call.»

So anyhow one night a drifter came in

And swayed down the aisle in his long cowboy coat

His spurs making tiny Oooommmm-ish like notes

And the moon making sparkles on his buckles and irons

And he sat down beside me and ordered a brew

«How far is this engine takin' this rig?»

I asked him--a kind of a «howdy» I guess--

And he looked at me gently, like Clint Eastwood would

And drew his revolver, gave the chambers a whack

And said with a smile, «It's a circular track.»

This puzzled me greatly and grieved me no end:

I had always believed we were going straight up

Or maybe straight down--it depended on luck

And the good lord’s intentions, whatever they was

And then there was whatever the hell we might do

With the millennimum intelligence we was give--

But ole Clint he jes smiled, and sucked on his smoke

Like he thought it was some kind o cosmical joke

And he sez to me, «Bud, there’s no reason for hope;

But then there’s no particular call for despair.»

This astounded me more, I was shocked and amazed

And I must have looked startled, as he chucked at my chin

And ordered us both one more for the road

«Listen Bud,» he repeated, «it comes round again

It goes over and over, the whole blessed time

Like wieners from Frosty, like Coronas and lime

Ain’t no need to sweat it, grab on and have fun

There won’t be no remembrin' when next you’ve begun.»

Then he vanished, a wraith fading out in the air

And that there is his coat, lying over that chair

And you can believe it, or call me a liar--

While I have me a drink, warm my feet at the fire!