One September, on a whim,
A man named Phil and sometimes Zim
Boarded a Lufthansa flight
And came to NYC by night.
Dressed in red pants and blue shoes
Arrived at PDill's with a Jules.
The Zoran, swaying at his post,
Was hammered there, in unwashed clothes;
An HFA who yells at balls
Was slamming shits and punching walls;
And Furnace, three large bags in tow,
Was weeping softly, laying low;
The Raulito, clenching fist,
Holding pool stick, yelled "you missed!"
And Rankish, two Coronas deep,
Was drunk and going home to sleep;
And Money, dapper in a tie,
Was busy fighting cops nearby.
"And Andrei," Phil asked, "Is he far?"
"He's getting banned from Texas bars."
December came, and Phil's still here
"I'll leave tomorrow, let's have beer."
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