Mine's a seamy place,
The wine you get ain't fine; it tastes
Like what my pet
Deposits on a tree--
Wretched it is positively,
Though wet,
Glug, glug. . . .

Here they're bingeing on Tokay;
Drunk, they don't know it's not okay;
They're insensate and unaware;
They remonstrate with knuckles bare,
They fight,
Slug, slug. . . .

Brawling, yes they are brawling,
And then they're falling on backs, in pain.

Wine here's never Rhône;
It's spiked with p!ss, though that's not known--
Ignorance. . .bliss; drink up
Then punch out lights,
First hit on girls in your blurred sights--
A kiss.
Ugh! Ugh! . . .

Ballin', guys call for ballin';
The girls' grips. . .balls in. . .
They're wracked with pain.

[ball break]

Mine's a seamy place
The whines from gents are high, 'n' chaste
Are girls they met
Who grip tenaciously
On guys who quip ungraciously,
"Let's get. . . .yeow! ow! ow! ow!"

Bawlin', yes they are bawlin'
'cause grips have balls in--
They're wracked with pain.

"Ow!" Squallin', yes they are squallin',
"Uncle!" they're callin'.
"Never again."

"Oh," calls she
Iron-i-cal-ly,
Rhe-tor-i-cal-ly,
"We feel your pain."