He drank his beer as though there were no tomorrow
Waiting on the barman, nothing but an endless look of sorrow
One pint, two pints, three pints… four
He’d guzzle and gargle ‘til shown the door

Name was Charlie, demeanour of abysmal desperation
His friends sat and watched brimming with elation
His shoes old and torn, head out and out worn
No way out except through utter scorn

He’d wander on home, body like rubber
The barman frowning and saying, with Charlie it’s always another
The customers ready and waiting, they’d sniff and sneer
‘Til Charlie’s next beer was all too near

Five pints, six pints, seven pints… eight
At one point or other he’d start to scour for a date
Never gonna happen, a customer would wail
Charlie almost but not quite ready to bail