They say behind every man who makes his mark

There's a woman standing in the dark

But for every man with a losing plan

There's a friendly bottle by his hand

These visions that I have

Loosened from the golden cage

They die stillborn when put down on the page

Hey, don't wipe the counter

Best to leave those little stains

See how the bourbon works to bring out the grain

Oh, it's a lost weekend

A party for the dead

Oh, it's a lost weekend

There's nothing more to be said

Oh, it's a lost weekend

And I can drink to that

Oh, I can drink to that

The heart of Dylan Thomas

The soul of Ezra Pound

Are buried deep inside me

But they don't make a sound

They don't make a sound

Not one little breath

But a .38 in the mouth

Is the Nobel Prize of death

I don't make a sound

No, I don't make a sound

Oh, it's a lost weekend

A party for the dead

Hey, it's a lost weekend

There's nothing more to be said

Oh, it's a lost weekend

And I can drink to that

Oh, I can drink to that