It is sung to the moon by a love-lorn loon
Who fled from the mocking throng-O
Its the song of a merry man moping mum
Whose soul was sad and his glance was glum
Who sipped no sup and who craved no crumb
As he sighed for the love of a lady
I'm so exhausted but drunk dialed awake by two friends from home drunk on a Wednesday night in D.C. I'm thirsty too.
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