Well I’m cookin’ up a party, if you miss it, you’ll be sorry, cause the guests have already arrived. That’s right, it’s Myrtle ‘95.
Circulating the floor, everyone knows that he’s gonna score tonight. Myrtle ‘95. Loungin’ on the couch, he’s sunk into a cushion and he’ll never get out, but that’s fine, it’s Myrtle ‘95. Hans Schiller and My Fucking Mother are servin’ up the beer, but Poldi isn’t frightened cause the White Shadow is here. Sit tight, it’s Myrtle ‘95.
And the Party Chef is takin’ tickets at the door. Organizing a session of round the horn. Till then he’ll work the tap and keep the keg alive. No rest for the weary, Myrtle ‘95.
If it’s all too raucous and you need somewhere to hide, the sensitive guys with the guitars are playing softly on the side. But they have wine. After all, it’s Myrtle ‘95. And just when it seems like you’re gonna lose control, Corky McGlown hands you a fat bowl. This is the life, and it’s just tonight, it’s out of sight, we all feel all right—it’s Myrtle ‘95.