Before the Fall Act I

A door is never open

It's always ajar

 

A song is never sung

(except by fools

who insist on interrupting

the sacred business of drinking)

It is only heard

In the distance.

 

A glass is never empty

It's just lonely.

 

Friends are never a friend;

They're only the next act

Of treachery and tragedy

(Doesn't that sound poetic)

 

Poverty is the person

Who stole your prosperity.

Prosperity was a similar

But infinitely less honest

Kind of thief

Charity is the one true thief

I'll drink to that

(Truth be told, I'll drink to anything)

 

Oh dear God stop me

From ever becoming religious

You owe me at least that much

IOU a Jack, a Jim an' a Johnnie

(That’s Daniel’s, Bean an' Walker

to the unbelievers among your flock

of sad unsinners)

Being unholy is kind of cool

Holiness is in the concept

Religion’s got nothing

To be holy about

It’s an empty glass.

Drinking's got spirit

Dear God of mine

Make mine a double

I'll believe in you twice.

 

(Thank you Janis. Why don’t we jack that Mercedes Benz you keep singing about? You can drive an' I'll be your loveable but inadequate companion, just like Gabby Hayes. I can’t do Tonto. The Noble Savage is beyond my range an’ anyway, you won’t wear a mask. The world is full of lonely rangers, but how many wear a mask? Maybe we could go to Mexico an’ I'll apply for the Cisco Kid's job. He wears great hats. I'd look cool in a hat like that. Is he any relation of Billy...?)

 

Loneliness in a glass
It's an urban myth

An’ a rural hype.

Drinking's only a curse

Morality is a disease

Curses are like glasses

You can lift them

Ever tried to lift a disease?

Aphorisms; don’t we just love 'em

Especially when we hide behind 'em.

(Is The Lonely Ranger

An aphorism in the making?)

They're a sign of conversational fear.

An’ fear is just a sign of itself

When it's got nothing else

To be fearful about

I think I'll have another drink

Before I start talking about Fitzgerald

And Malcolm the Vulcanologist.

Good word, vulcanologist

Impressive in the right company

Must remember to use it again

On the next innocent abroad.

 

Nobody loves you when you're just a poor drunk. A few people love you if you’re a clever drunk. But everybody loves you if you're a rich drunk. You've got a friend in every pocket, and that's what friends are for. Your relatives live in your wallet ‘an we're not talking photographs here. You can only trust your enemies. They at least will be true to themselves and as treacherous as only an enemy can be. Truth be told, there's truth in wine, but a sadder truth is: we all tell lies. The wine just makes them more delicious. We can all drink to that. The rich are never drunk, just unsober. Only the poor can be driven mad by drink. (It's the only experience of being chauffeur driven they'll ever have.) The rich are merely inebriate and eccentric. Class and euphemism are always so reliable. It’s a very rich language we have here; in every sense.

 

Especially when we talk in clichés

Even with perfect strangers

(Why are strangers perfect?

Are they some kind of deity?)

Clichés are a wonderful thing

When you have four fingers

Of blessed rye in your hand.

‘Only the good die young.’

That’s a great ole cliché.

‘Been down this road so long

It looks like upper street again’

That’s an even better one, I think

Bob Zimmerman’s brother in law

Didn’t get round to being related

According to the romantic plan

“That’s not a cliché, that’s an

urban myth”, said the stranger

When Dante met Janis it was

Downhill all the way for them

Thank you John Milton

Where would hell be without you?

In ever decreasing circles

You might say, an’ then again

You might not bother to say anything.

Intellectuals are sometimes lonely.

Perhaps you don’t speak to strangers

Even perfect ones in dark glasses

Who are unafraid to look in mirrors.

Let me buy you a drink in a darker glass

Did I tell you, me an’ Janis are

Heading down Mexico’s dusty way?

Elvis and Marilyn are living there

They were secretly married even

To each other's each other self.

They were all set to become

The King and Queen of America

But the constitution wouldn’t allow it.

Norman the Mailman’s going to write

(That’ll be the day dream all believers

Try to avoid believing in too much)

A bestselling an’ hard hitting novelty item

About it all, with the built-in revelation

That their kids were kidnapped

By all those dead Kennedys and ……

Is the floor getting closer or am I collapsing?

An’ what did you say

Your name was, Mephistopheles?

That’s a cute name. But why are you

Smiling at me in such a strange fashion?

Make mine a double; what’s your poison?”