Tales Of The Gurrier

Farewell the nights, farewell the days,
To blissful evenings, in endless haze,
The Gurrier’s spent, his days are numbered,
This aging pate, it longs to slumber,

He’s had his six, and twenty more,
and passed another three or four,
In burned out cars, or on the floor.

Of friends, whom have long now passed,
From knacker drinking on the grass,
Whilst ‘ere he lazed in pastures greener,
the world has turned, and gotten meaner.

Across a thousand days and nights,
He’s barked and raged and called you ‘shites!’,
But now the long black veil is close,
He feels as one become a ghost,

This bloom of youth has tarried long,
’tis time to end with wine and song,
For can a man spend all his days,
In joyful unencumbered rage?

For soon he’ll surely step awry,
and the cup of rage will runneth dry!
With spleen all spent, and choler choked,
will then we see The Gurrier yoke’d.
To distant dreams of a far off places,
Where lies respite from human races.

But worry not, my fiendish friends,
For soon we sweetly make amends.
No, not for him, that Shangri-La,
If you want us, we’ll be in the bar.

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