She told me I was lucky before the bottle was even opened,
And she proposed a toast to new-found love,
Well, I poured her a stiff one and made mine a little stiffer,
'Cause I wasn't sure it was her I was thinking of.
As we became more acquainted, John Barleycorn engaged us,
The nights became a blur of endless fun,
It may have been the drink talking when I went down on one knee,
But boy, did I rue it beneath the morning sun.
So we settled down with John Barleycorn as our butler,
He'd answer all our queries by pouring himself,
But sometimes concurrence was at best, inconsistent,
And in bitterest feud we'd embroil ourselves.
Well, old John holds no answers, he just deals with the pain,
By numbing the senses with a false grin and bear,
And no matter how much you try to burn it with whisky,
When sobriety sets in, the pain is still there.
Now, as I peer down the neck of yet another empty bottle,
Looking for the dreg with the sting in its tail,
That one final drop that answers that age-old question,
Just when a-bouts was it, my life started to fail?
Well, if you've ever had a hangover, you'll know just what I mean,
The pain and the misery, sorrow, and regret,
That great distant reminder of something long ago lost,
Something that the whisky helps you to forget.
Well, I've been hung over now, for how long, I don't know,
It's hard to tell when I don't even know who I am,
And when the woman beside me no longer holds place in my heart,
It's easy to be coaxed by old John's charm.