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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaPStRVFCXk&ab_channel=TheWhiteStripes-Topic

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He swept his sleeve across the poker table,

He’d been winning - well enough,

Even - but the company had been intolerable and

He’d been wanting for better conversation.

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“F*****g f**k this f*****g place, man.” 

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Chips scattered 

As he pulled his denim jacket 

From the table and across

The chair’s crooked armrest.

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“F*****g, drink myself to death by thirty-five.”

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It was hard to discern 

Whether he’d been mumbling to the ceiling,

Himself, or a little man with a viking hat, 

Red pajamas and a pitchfork, 

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That’d been whispering to him, quietly,

From a shallow perch upon his shoulder.

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