(Verse 1)
Quarter of a century, the liver’s in decay
Ten broken legends on a long weekend away
We came for the poker, the trivia, the beer
And there’s never any question that we’ll all be here next year.
(Verse 2)
There’s Zuzz in the corner with a twisted little smile
Eyeing off your kneecaps, gonna ruin 'em in style
He’s staring at Stew, feeling heavy and intense
Fantasizing ’bout his buddy with five blokes up in his end.
Meanwhile Stew is sweating, tennis racket in his hand
He might die in his sleep, but at least he’ll go out grand.
(Chorus)
So pour another beer, put the ping pong paddle down!
The best crew of blokes to ever hit this town!
Twenty-five years, and still the best of mates,
We’re old, we’re broken, but not yet past our use by dates.
(Verse 3)
Berner’s in the laundry, sleeping on the floor
Lisfranc foot, full of booze, snore after snore
Stew beat him at tennis, when he could barely stand,
While Bowyer’s short and furious, taking full command!
Finally named Captain, he’s five-foot-two of rage,
Angry at the world and his advancing middle age.
(Verse 4)
It’s 4:00 AM and the sun is nowhere in sight
Shorty’s playing tennis with Bowyer in the night
Shorty’s sharing his shit opinions, thinking he’s high and mighty but really he’s a grumpy old man, secretly a righty!
No bumps for him so at this hour he’s a little groggy
Then there’s Jimmy looking normal, cool as a breeze,
Sliding into Zuzz’s bed with absolute ease,
He yells “Have a seat, honey" at the Jamieson brewery
Shorty shakes his head at this newfound foolery.
(Chorus)
So pour another pint, put the ping pong paddle down!
The best crew of blokes to ever hit this town!
Twenty-five years, and still the best of mates,
We’re old, we’re broken, but not yet past our use by dates.
(Bridge)
Listen closely in the dark, hear that constant drone?
That’s Bmac still talking, all on his own!
Everyone’s asleep, the lights are turned off,
He’s still chatting to the chairs, but listen they do not.
Lethal’s off his face, looking straight-up like E.T.,
100 years old, never sleeps, floating free.
Swatta’s on the AUX, turning tunes up high,
Trying to get a deep and meaningful before we all die.
And Toast just stands there with a shit-eating grin,
A pregnant telephone pole soaking it in.
(Outro)
Twenty-five years of beer, cricket, and pain,
Ten ripper blokes doing it again.
Only death will separate us, but don't be him
who dies on boys weekend cos we'll all say 'piss on him'!
