He sits on his stool,
Not too drunk as a rule,
And propounds all his theories
As companions he wearies,

With thoughts not sublime,
But thought all the time,
With thoughts lacking depth,
But thoughts which have swept
o'er the mind of The Bar Room Philosopher

He thinks life is cruel,
Looking down from his stool
His point of perception's
Dulled by brews sweet deceptions

So he'll sit at that bar
His mind burst ajar,
With thoughts lacking depth,
With thoughts that have swept,
and will evermore sweep
o'er the mind of The Bar Room Philosopher

© Copyright 2006, James Keenan and Cogent Communications, Inc.