I can get very maudlin also mawkish, takin' Demerol,
Because I quaff it down with quotidian quarts of alcohol.
I rarely rant and I'm the antithesis of hysterical,
I'm stewed, sedated, pupils aren't dilated. . .barely spherical.

I'm a fellow who's way mellow; won't yell to be emphatical;
Compared to me deceased yogis looks amped; it's preternatural.
My mind can't think, my eyes don't blink, because I drink a lotta booze,
A somnolent somnambulist near soma coma. . .gotta snooze.

A somnolent somnambulist near soma coma. . .gotta snooze.
A somnolent somnambulist near soma coma. . .gotta snooze.
A somnolent somnambulist near soma coma. . .gotta snooze.

My brain is lame and reigns like Dubya's domain: hypothalamus,
I lope like Chaney, Lon, but like Dick, I've a lycanthropic puss.
Cortex gray matter's saturated with a vat of alcohol,
Which makes me very maudlin and mawkish, mated with Demerol.

Cortex gray matter's saturated with a vat of alcohol,
Which makes me very maudlin and mawkish, mated with Demerol.

I'm damned fatigued, can't dance a gigue, much less a leap-in-air gavotte.
My vocal cords can't invoke words; I croak, for I won't bear to talk.
My wife says, "Get a life, or whet a knife for your hippocampus!"
I'm wasted and two-faced; that's why my mate names me "dipso-Janus."

She mopes because the dope has choked my potency; so often she
Scoffs: "You can't loft, you're soft, you can't get off, so you're not boffin' me!
You used to make me, slake me, quake me daily with your poon-dipper
But now you're dulled and mulled, indulged in lulling drug and juniper.

"But now you're dulled and mulled, indulged in lulling drug and juniper.
But now you're dulled and mulled, indulged in lulling drug and juniper.
But now you're dulled and mulled, indulged in lulling drug and juniper."

I'm now too lax to snack or to play sax; I can't tune B-flat horn,
No energy, just entropy; elderly gent spoons me canned corn.
Cortex gray matter's saturated with a vat of alcohol,
Which makes me very maudlin, also mawkish, paired with Demerol.

Cortex gray matter's saturated; alcohol and Demerol
Cause me to plot these awful songs, too long, and clogged with folderol.

I used to be orthography's genie when I was Scrabblin',
But now my mouth dips south and like a clouted lout I'm babblin'.
When young, I screamed when weaned from nice green ice cream--frozen dairy fat;
Tongue's now hung off my lip, coated like moltin' dozin' hairy cat.

My maudlin, mawkish manner manifests when I sob, blubbery,
And reasonlessly weep 'bout Bo Peep's sheep lost in some shrubbery.
One day my mate takes me 'way to AA; they've got a litany
Of twelve steps; in I schlep, wretched wreck; their rep says, "You're sh*ttin' me!"

Of twelve steps; in I schlep, wretched wreck; their rep says, "You're sh*ttin' me!"
He hefts me off the deck and checks the meds and ethyl blitzin' me.
I'm imbibed, full; finds his Bible and with this lit is hittin' me.

I'll go cold turkey, just rolled jerky, eau de vie, and fruit for me.
My wife reminds me this diet's "high" in spiritus frumenti
Distilled from matter vegetable; of it full, most men'll crawl,
And bawl, maudlin and mawkish, straight through the gateway to Demerol

I'm still a man made vegetable by ingesting alcohol
For quaffing down my quotidian regimen of Demerol.
I quip that I'd quit quickly but it fits me: blitzed be diurnal-
y. . . .quixotic'ly quaff quotidian quotient of Demerol.