Whiskey in the Jar
But then, he filled me with Chivas regal.
Tonight was certainly going to be different;
it wasn't his usual Johnny Walker Red Label.
He must've been Philip feeling some Hunter S Thompson tonight.
It's his usual trope to pay homage to someone
as an excuse for his drinking.
Everybody here knows that it's all an act.
Leave it to him, it's some blend of Scotch.
As much as I judge, I still long for that grasp.
His fingers wrapped around me? It feels like home.
And between those lips…where I belong.
We sit together in the bar, not accomplishing a thing,
but not really missing out either.
We're companions, or friends, or…whatever.
Nobody judges us for being here, but it's
not exactly glorious either.
There's nothing noble about us;
just a solid, dependable, reliable trust.
So, who is to judge? We are who we are;
we drink what we drink and we feel what we feel.
Whatever happens is between us and our God.