# Another shot

Владимир Сергеевич Коншин

Dim lights in a two-bit dive,

Douglas town, 1932's alive.

Whiskey pours from a hidden hand,

Another shot down, I barely stand.


First shot, fifth shot, they start to blur,

Tenth one, twentieth, all I hear's a slur.

Bottle in my hand, trouble in my heart,

Tryna drown the days that tear me apart.


Old blues hums from that crackling radio,

In a smoky room where lost souls go.

Barstool feels like home tonight,

I ain't leavin' till I'm outta sight.


First shot, fifth shot, they start to blur,

Tenth one, twentieth, just a stir of words.

Keep "em comin", drown my fight,

Till that dusty dawn steals the night.


They toss me out when the clock strikes two,

Mud on my face, blood on my shoe.

Dreams don"t matter, got nowhere to go,

Just a dusty road, and the devil I know.


Morning comes, and I"m back again,

Same bar, same stool, same whiskey sin.

Got dust on my boots, dirt in my soul,

Another round, another hole to fill whole.


First shot, fifth shot, all the same,

Thirty shots deep, don"t recall my name.

No end, no start, in this town I roam,

Till I drink my way to the grave alone.


Dust hangs low as the night starts to bleed,

Whiskey or steel-whatever I need.

A cold shot"s waiting, one final round,

Glass to my lips, no other sound.


Heavy the barrel, but light is my grip,

One more pour, just a last sip.

I take that shot, let it swallow the pain,

In Douglas town, where my ghost will remain.