A Tweed Coat Night

It's a tweed coat night, an Irish stout night, 

the place is hoaching, the craic is great, 

you sing '29 Dollars and an Alligator Purse', 

It's Waits' best, but your singing's got worse.

You chat to a wee blonde up at the bar, 

you're spilling the Murphy's two pints, too far.

We stagger about on broken down shoes, 

shuffling drunkly with the theme bar blues, 

It's a tweed coat night for pints of the brown, 

We'll have us another , before we fall down. 

The band in the corner are playing the Pogues, 

the craic is great with this parcel of rogues.

They shout and rant through 'The Irish Rover', 

I'm dreading the morning- my usual hangover, 

'Last Orders' are shouted, the last dregs are necked, 

It's time to go home, and I'm totally wrecked.

( Recalling getting drunk thirty odd years ago,  when I used to wear an old tweed coat bought from a charity shop!)