The Tallyman by Franko Sinatra

"Come," said the Tallyman, "let us make an accounting of your life."

Never a morning more wastefully spent. It was in a claustrophobic Brisbane watering hole smelling of vomit and the fear-sweat of dismal lives.

The beer and peanut dust glue must have stuck my left sideburn to the bar as I couldn't lift my head. I had that bottle of gin for breakfast. Or was that a dream?

And fed the chewing gum stuck coinage from the Vespa's ashtray to the insatiable poker machine in the corner under the sagging ceiling.