| You’re in the pub at half past ten, the money for the cure all spent again
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| Trying to figure out who’s carrying and where they’ll be that day
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| Forget about the night before when you were flying for an hour or more
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| And move across to the Central Bar hoping that you’ll see
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| One of them hard cases, soft faces, who grip you with their deadly smile
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| The grip it slowly tightens and the grin gets slowly deeper
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| And beads of perspiration stand out upon your cadgilation
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| Someone takes the pressure off and calls out more porter
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| Soon enough the tap runs dry and the afternoon goes slowly by
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| The Barman looks on warily as your mates come drifting in
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| Someone says there’s a session on, a tarnished bard has just hit town
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| Move across to the Widows; |
| see if you can rustle up the entrance fee from
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| A woman you know buys you your last and the evening goes flashing past
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| Bridie’s screaming as your eyeing the slops behind the bar
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| The party crowd is gathering, the banjo, fiddle and mandolin
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| The cider flagon hunt is on, if you haven’t got a tosser
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| Won’t you bring along a dozen of… |