I stumbled into Merrion tow to listen to a tune. I fought my way down Grafton by the rising of the moon. I sat on the floor of my poxy room just me and the BBC eating bachelor’s beans out of the tin, there’s nothing here for me. And a rovin’ you will go. You are not the one she wants. You are just a ghost from an evening haunt and a rovin’ you will go. And you wish that she would stay for now your day is empty and it’s just another day. I put my pen to paper but there’s nothing to be said. I might as well be in the desert with a turban on my head. I could go to Trader John’s or I could shower and could shave. I could go on up to Wicklow and throw a rose on Ronnie’s grave. I drank until my bones shook and gathered all my pay. I stood outside the locked up bar along the bachelor’s quay. I had absolutely forgotten that it was Christmas day and now there’s nothing open and there’s nothing left to say. And it’s only Christmas day. And it’s just St. Stephen’s day.