(Rob Shapiro/Brian Woodbury)
Tequila’s for pussies. Vodka’s for jerks.
You kiddin’ with mojitos?
Wine coolers are the only thing worse.
Well, chocatinis… Anything that ends in -ini
Or a sloe gin fiz, whatever the hell that is.
Apertifs, digestifs, they don’t belong.
They ain’t got no business in an American song.
So you can take your cosmopolitan and pour it down the sink.
Make it a bourbon, son, and I’ll gladly take a drink
Maybe a beer now and then, but that’s just to wash it down.
’Cause when you come around, bring me a bottle of brown.
Have another round, with a bottle of brown.
I was born in the city, but raised on Knob Creek.
I can meet my Makers any day of the week.
I got a Rebel Yell and a taste in Manhattan
I’m the Louisville Slugger and you’re sweet Old Fashioned
A mardis gras mint julep, out on the verandah.
Or on a Brooklyn stoop with a hand-rolled cubana
Jack, Jim and me, and Bookers makes three.
Four – but who’s countin’, when you barely can see?
You’ll know you probably had too much, if you’re nappin’ on the ground.
But when you come around, you’ll need a bottle of brown.
The soother of all ills. The flavor that distills
the American dream from the Kentucky hills.
Every simple truth is found in a bottle of brown.
If we have another round, bring me a bottle of brown.
Y’all gone come around to the bottle of brown.
Please drink responsibly.