The Mean Streets of Bombay

One wild night in Bombay, India,
I walked into an evil bar

20 drinks too sober
on the wicked-wrong end of
a Friday night booze run.

On the bad side of the Moon

where Martian men drank,

ogling the Venus girls and leering
at Earth women in skin-tight pants
that made their eyeballs hurt.

I gave into the spirit

and decided to join them,
getting drunk on Martian whiskey and
smoking that good old-fashioned
Mars dust as well.

Next thing I knew,
I was on my way to Jupiter,
on a lark with a gal who
said she was from Saturn.

Didn’t learn she was from Pluto
until I woke the next day,
naked and in jail somewhere
near Alpha Centauri.

A million miles away,
a thousand years in the future,
with no money, no honey,
and no fucking way home.

Still 20 drinks too sober,
I just pissed away my time
with fine Pluto whisky
and cold-ass alien wine.

Then one day

I found myself outside that bar again,
enveloped in the miasmic mists
by the old Martian whorehouse,
down near the Gate of India.

Walked up to my Pluto babe
and said, man,
that was some bad shit;
let’s do it again sometime.

Knew the day
would come again,
I’d be drinking with
those Martian men.

Something bad
my way would come,
another night
of wicked fun.

On the wrong side of the Moon,
on just the right night,
in the mean streets

of Bombay.