“Ooga booga, chooga dooga,”
these were the noises my car was making,
before it all come to a stop. Juddering and spluttering, it was breaking.
Alone in the middle of nowhere, freezing in the cold, with a pack of cigarettes, and a car full of regrets.
To get myself out of here, something special must be done,
I should have a look in that liquor store over there, to get warmed up, I’ll need some cheap rum.
It’s very late at night and the door’s wide open, creeping around this scary store, leaving French toast crumbs.
All the lights are out and most of the bottles on the shelves aren’t there,
everything seems slightly off, even the wine barrels are square!
The bottles are strange colours, and the roof seems to be warbling and rippling,
I bought these cigarettes from a roadside vendor, something in them is causing this tripping!
Will I ever get out of this hallucinogenic arctic bottle shop?
I don’t know, but whoever’s gonna clean this place up, has got a hell of a job.
Oh, hold on, a bottle of vodka is talking to me,
in a scary Russian accent, it keeps calling me “Jimmy”.
I don’t like this bottle of Vodka,
it’s rude and talks shit to me,
I’d be glad to see the back of him,
oh God, the vodka’s now started a fight with a Jim Beam.
I shall cut this poem short,
After the fight I will report.
Goodbye to whoever’s reading this,
this fight’s a real pisser!