| My bulldog is barking in the backyard
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| Enough to raise a dead man from his grave
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| And I can’t concentrate on what I’m doing
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| Disturbance going to crucify my days
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| And the days they get longer and longer
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| And the nighttime is a time of little use
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| For I just get ugly and older
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| I get juiced on Mateus and just hang loose
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| And I get bombed for breakfast in the morning
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| I get bombed for dinner time and tea
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| I dress in rags, smell a lot, and have a real good time
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| I’m a genuine example of a social disease
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| My landlady lives in a caravan
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| Well that is when she isn’t in my arms
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| And it seems I pay the rent in human kindness
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| But my liquor also helps to grease her palms
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| And the ladies are all getting wrinkles
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| And they’re falling apart at the seams
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| Well I just get high on tequila
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| And see visions of vineyards in my dreams |