Krupnik on a Sunday
My head is a beehive of dynamite, my stomach’s a mean tilt-a-whirl
How I wound up half-dressed in this bed of mine, sure, I haven’t a clue in the world
La da da da, come day, go day, wish in me heart it was Sunday
La da da da, drinking diet Coors all the week, and it’s krupnik on a Sunday
In 2013, lo, the Dyers arrived with a jug o’ the honeyest punch
It’s smoother and sweeter than caramel pie, and too much will cost you your lunch
La da da da, come day, go day, wish in me heart it was Sunday
La da da da, drinking Starka all the week, and it’s krupnik on a Sunday
The sound of the bell…aye, your mouth liquefies
For ye know something fine is in store
Vanilla or orange or a barrel’s insides
To your detriment you will want more
La da da da, come day, go day, wish in me heart it was Sunday
La da da da, drinking absinthe all the week, and it’s krupnik on a Sunday
For 500 years from the monks of Nieśwież through the Poldiers of World War 2
To the plinkies & fiddlers & drinkers in green known as the Bold O’Donaghues
La da da da, come day, go day, wish in me heart it was Sunday
La da da da, drinking car bombs all the week, and it’s krupnik on a Sunday
(repeat)
© 2018 John Brocato
NOTE: I wrote this to the tune of the old Irish song "Whiskey on a Sunday."
How I wound up half-dressed in this bed of mine, sure, I haven’t a clue in the world
La da da da, come day, go day, wish in me heart it was Sunday
La da da da, drinking diet Coors all the week, and it’s krupnik on a Sunday
In 2013, lo, the Dyers arrived with a jug o’ the honeyest punch
It’s smoother and sweeter than caramel pie, and too much will cost you your lunch
La da da da, come day, go day, wish in me heart it was Sunday
La da da da, drinking Starka all the week, and it’s krupnik on a Sunday
The sound of the bell…aye, your mouth liquefies
For ye know something fine is in store
Vanilla or orange or a barrel’s insides
To your detriment you will want more
La da da da, come day, go day, wish in me heart it was Sunday
La da da da, drinking absinthe all the week, and it’s krupnik on a Sunday
For 500 years from the monks of Nieśwież through the Poldiers of World War 2
To the plinkies & fiddlers & drinkers in green known as the Bold O’Donaghues
La da da da, come day, go day, wish in me heart it was Sunday
La da da da, drinking car bombs all the week, and it’s krupnik on a Sunday
(repeat)
© 2018 John Brocato
NOTE: I wrote this to the tune of the old Irish song "Whiskey on a Sunday."