Old Stauncher

Maybe it’s all wrung out—

rag of my blood, rag of my tears.
Time to twist and shout!

What it’s all about!—
numbering numies, counting beers.
Maybe it’s all wrung out—

rag of my groping doubt,
rag of my wasted years.
Time to twist and shout

in my last grim redoubt,
parrying meat hooks up to my ears.
Maybe it’s all wrung out—

the drenching bloody clout
of songs sung to weary ears.
Time to twist and shout—

I’ve got to just release this trout!
Have a good morning! See ya! Cheers!
I think it’s all wrung out.
Time to twist and shout!