there comes a time in every man's life when decisions have to be made: whether labor, toil, or just plain piss your day away, away, AWAY!!!!!!

Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street, A gentle Irishman - Mighty Odd - He'd a beautiful brogue So rich and sweet, to rise in the world He carried a hod, You see He'd sort of a Trippling way: with love for a liquor Poor Tim was born, to help him on with His work each day, He'd a drop of the Craythor every morn' One morning Tim was rather full, his head felt Heavy, which made him shake, fell from the Ladder and broke his skull, so they carried Him home, his corpse to wake, rolled Him up in a nice clean sheat, and laided Him upon the bed, A bottle of Whiskey At his feet, and a gallon of Porter At his head