I’m missing sips from my Jack Daniels bottle, tell me have you seen the thief? When I get a little sober I might find a clue to tell me where to peek. Cuz’ I’ve been searching high and low from underneath the table on the floor, but still I can’t remind myself of how I fell right through the bathroom door. I’ve got a loaded pistol full of vengeance for the man who stole the whiskey bottle from underneath my hand, and I’ve got no sympathy for the crooked whisky thief who stole my only promise from the sober working week. Have you seen my leather boots I don’t remember where I left them yesterday? They’re usually outside the door but it looks like they got up and walked away. I’m a few dollars short from the money that I left by the bed. I woke up to find that ten bills had been lifted with no evidence again to prove that I’m that I’m wrong, but I’m right; to prove that I challenged the right man to a fight. And I can’t remember how I fought or what I did. If I knew that fucking thief had stole my pills and my gin I’d fight again. Well it seems that the whiskey thief also ran off with my clothes. And he must have done some snorting cuz’ the kitchen table is covered with my blow. But it’s strange that he was stealing the cocaine and stale alcohol, because I could have sworn I locked up the booze and the powder down the hall. Then it all started to make sense, as I looked in the mirror with a hesitant glance. I found my pills and my gin and the money from my bed, and I remembered late last night stealing whisky from the den. I’m the whisky thief, so it seems I’m drunk again. Stealing things from myself and I blame it on my friends. I have no idea of the time or the day and I can’t fall in love cuz’ this gin makes me hate. Just one more chaser for my pitiful fate that will leave me time for dreaming. And who the hell stole my booze anyway?