Then I do my usual thing: I let the telephone ring and ring and ring.
I'm standing at a phone booth, coping with the ugly truth.
You see, I know where you are... I know where you are.
You're down drinking at the bar.
I can picture you there on that stool, drinking like a drunken fool.
Yeah, you're sitting there on your ass, muttering into your glass.
Paying for your lowlife thrills with wet quarters and soggy one dollar bills.
I know where you are, baby.
You're down drinking at the bar.
Dean Martin's on the jukebox, I bet.
Or maybe it's Tammy Wynette.
The tearjerkers are jerking your tears.
Salt water in your whiskey and your beers.
You've got the Miller High Life bouncing balls.
You've got the Utica Club waterfalls.
I know where you are, oh ho.
You're down at the bar.
You're down at the bar.
Go ahead get drunk, it's alright.
Lost weekend on a Tuesday night.
But I'm going to have to give you the score:
I'm not going to call you up on the telephone no more.
I'm sick and tired of listening to that phone ring 15 times.
I'm sick and tired of getting back my dimes!
Because I know what you are.
You're at sot, that's what you are.
I know what you are.
You're a lush.
You got a big red nose!
I know where you are, baby.
I know where you are...
You're down drinking at the bar.