McLaren's at Midnight

The clock struck twelve,
time for the final call.
Time to empty the leather booths,
and the stinky bathroom stalls.

I see a lawyer,
searching for answers at the bottom of his drink.
And his wife,
surviving on existence's brink.

I see a man laughing,
melancholy in his eyes.
Counting every second,
as he explains how time flies.

And I see a woman,
trying to drag that last sip.
And then I see me,
a black eye and and a bloody lip.

McLaren's at midnight,
oh! what a celebration it is.
When the foam is all that's left,
and the beer has lost it's fizz.

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When one learns to celebrate ones loses,life becomes a celebration.