I’ve got spiral-bound fakebooks of memories and fake hooks. They’ve kept me alive for years, now. Lately, I haven’t been well: my head’s hit a dry spell. The worst is now all that’s left. Can you hear a word I say? Are we bearing our souls for nothing? Can you say you feel the same? Just the same as before? Put up, put up a good fight, baby. Pick up, pick up, you can’t ignore that the fight is over now, and the lights have all gone out. So drink up, drink up, it’s last call, baby. Get up, get up, but we want more, until everyone blacks out and the silence keeps us safe and sound. Yeah, the whiskey will keep us from remembering this business that we’ve chosen can haunt us, like reminding me softly that I’ve been keeping my fakebooks for fake friends and half-crooks, the way that I always swore I’d not. If it’s over now, was it worth every bridge that we burned to the ground? If we’re going down... anchor’s hooked to the line and we’re all gonna drown. So let's drink up to whats been the best of us, until everyone blacks out and the silence keeps us safe and sound
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