Eric's in a stuper

Eric’s got a twelve-pound quota,

But Jeff and Chris do all the work,

He shows up smellin’ like brandy,

Talkin’ loud and actin’ berserk.

“No doubt… coooo…” every sentence,

Coffee brandy on his breath,

Borrowed side-by-side again boys,

That thing’s been “fixed” to death.

He’s a future faker, promise maker,

King of plans that never land,

“Tar the driveway, fix the dock, boys,

Get that wheeler runnin’ grand.”

But me and Brett are gettin’ tired,

Of hearin’ engines hit our lane,

Put a sign up by the woodpile:

“ERIC DON’T TRESPASS AGAIN.”

🎶

Coooo… Roach of Long Island,

Burnin’ brush and losin’ track,

Roof still leakin’, dock still crooked,

But he swears he’ll fix it back.

🎶

One night Brett was drinkin’ beers there,

Tryin’ just to mind his biz,

Eric staggered from the bonfire

Higher than the moonlight is.

Looked at Brett and started whisperin’,

Eyes half shut, face cherry red,

“If ya want somethin’ stronger than a beer, bud…

I can give ya a ride,” he said.

Now by then he’d crushed a liter

Of Allen’s and God knows what,

Talkin’ ‘bout “summer of shrooms and crack”

While burnin’ wet brush in a rut.

Pot smoke driftin’ through the cedars,

Chainsaw screamin’ after dark,

Bald head glowin’ by the firelight

Like a haunted campground spark.

🎶

He’s the roach of Long Island,

Borrowin’ everything in sight,

Claims he’s fixin’ docks tomorrow

Then gets drunk by supper time.

“No doubt… coooo…” echoes through the pines,

Jeff and Chris catch every eel while Eric falls behind,

Me and Brett just shake our heads each night,

Watchin’ Roach disappear into the firelight. 🎶