What a weekend done ‘n’ dusted
Glasses of ‘Morgies’ to sort the men from the boys
A gang like no other, an all too anticipated phone call from a wary mother
“Take your time, enjoy the sun, perhaps a glass of wine or two, no more, no less”
Who was she kidding, with all of the craic going on about the place I’d need to drink harder than that
Keep the quick wit strong, meet a nice girl who I might like to impress
A 30th birthday like no other, sun-smothered
Locky calls my freckles out one more time and he’ll be drunk on the floor in the Garrettstown shine
What can I say other than Collie Mac sure does read sublime
Wired to the moon, the sun right now
A barman with miles of energy, stories left, right and centre, on he shall plough
Would it ever end, who wanted it to end
Nobody except for the three baldy fat men at the other table
When it came to taking us down to the ground for talking too much they were far less than able
The craft beer played its part too, one or two McGrath’s, spoke to an aviator about an early morning flight to Amsterdam
What a man, well able to read ‘The Star’ on route, supposedly they’ve feck all to do
Turn the key and stew for a while
Then there were beers in Curtin’s, Locky took a shot of Tequila like he promised he wouldn’t
Shouldn’t, ‘cos now I’ve got to worry about his Monday morning fear

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