The sound of a hundred conversations
And barmaid infatuations
And sexual frustrations
A night out with many questions
Amongst the lads there's only one sound
‘Who's getting the next round?”
(It's me) I go to the bar and ask the bartender
For a packet of crisps and 4 pints of Stella
I notice at the bar this tasty bird
Her lips around, a pint of Kronenberg
I shouldn't look, she looks 16
My eyes are flashing like the fruit machine
I see my mates faces, they lack sincerity
Because their glasses are empty!
They shout things and wave their hands
It's a universal language, everyone understands
A language spoken on Friday and Saturday nights
“Stop eyeing up the girls and get the pints!”
