If you're looking for me, I should be easy enough to find,
I'll be the guy sitting solo at the end of the bar,
The drunken old bum at the end of the line,
Trying to drown the memories of a broken heart.
There's a jukebox in the corner that used to play our song,
A romantic little number to which you'd sing along,
Now the tune is melancholy to my ears,
It never fails to fill my eyes with tears.
I know that I've been here before, trying to drown my sorrow,
I was here before I met you and I'll be here again tomorrow,
Sinking further down into the bottle,
In the shadow of the lonely drunkard's grotto.
I'm staring at the liquor shelf, a silhouette of yesterday,
Same old scene, same old place, same old painful memory,
Smoke swirls its ghostly veil before my eyes,
Before breaking up like shattered pride.
The empire is crumbling and I'm no longer king,
I made the rules, I broke them, I have no one else to blame,
Being truly sorry is an agonizing pain,
A heartache that just won't go away.
Drunkard's GrottoThe pain of being sorry.
By Harry Boslem