The Tallyman by Franko Sinatra

Suddenly the floor morphed into a bed of quicksand that drew me into the dirty abyss of past deeds done.

I wished that, I had shared my peanuts with the cute barmaid rather than falling asleep on the bar like every other drunk in the musty dark depressing hell that is the front bar of an innercity hotel.

How I long for the freshly cut grass of a southwest beer garden, where mud stained surfboard laden EH's line up like trusty steeds of knights of old.