One Can't Be Wistful Here
The beer is getting stale, my friend.
The music's too oppressive.
The women not so innocent.
One can't be wistful here.

I wonder what it could have been
To take us to this place.
The clock will keep the time too well:
We must remember who we were.

I think that there were gladder times.
Was it here?  I can't be sure.
And now it seems I can't recall
What the glad times used to be.

So finish up and we'll be gone.
We're too old and they're too young.
I feel so aged in places like this.
One can't be wistful here.