I'm lain in the gutter, neck deep in the shit,
    Because all the best ballads already been writ'…
All the singing of wine, racy women and war,
   All the hedgehogs that couldn't be buggered at all;
All the poison-pen let'ers, the treasure troves hid,
        All the cross-dressing lumberjacks scaring the kids;

  There are tunes to slur drunkenly, deep in th' cups
    Of a leather-clad beauty—or two—with some luck.
   There are words to amuse; there are words to delight,
  There are words calcula'ed to touch off a fight.
Such as: All of yon bastards agree on the same:
    That a verse upon verse is the lamest o' lame.
	
      So bring out yer dying, yer Shakespeare, yer dead,
   Because everything worthy's already been said
  All the crimes and the passion, the luck and the fates
     An' the love and the anguish, the pain and the hate
    And here's to another wry stab at the truth
  In a manner untempered, unfain and uncouth—

Yeah, here's to a million more shamblin' refrains,
   A million more found and los' moments again;
 Conceived and abandoned and tossed out fer good,
     By an oddly clear mem'ry that fucking well should
   Know better than gleefully taunting yer mind
 With the Python and Pratchett that life…left…behind.