In the dusty old palace of brown bottles

Sits a man on a machine

Dreaming next to the old water tank,

Copper brown

 

He basks in the delight of a memory

Of clinking bottles in the sunshine

They give of an orangey gleam

His head falls back in silent laughter

 

It echoes around and returns

Still silent, reminisce my dear friend.

An old man broken down, he is still a man

He lost his job and his teeth followed

 

But here he is not alone

Old bottles share an empty feeling

Of only the past to look forward to

The distillery where dreams are brewed

 

The distillery where there is no interlude

Anymore, just a constant hum in the air.

Bats hang from the ceiling, asleep

Like he wishes he was, nocturnal

 

The machine he sits on is his ticket out of here

If only he knew how to resurrect it.

He’d be swingin’ on down to the old boogie

But for now he is in the distillery