Owen FitzGerald - Dead Friends

All my dead friends, three deep to the bar. 

It'd be so easy to be where they are. 

But I'm pulling pints; lining up picklebacks. 

I scratch through the tax stamps on each Evan that's cashed. 

All my friends are sweet. They're dying to see me. 

Low are the lights. Thick is the smoke. 

More dead friends come; no dead friends go. 

I smile at the boasts. I laugh at the jokes. 

I know each plan made for tomorrow. 

My dead friends, they keep me running. 

All my dead friends, they keep me running. 

My dead friends, they keep me running. 

All my dead friends, they keep me running. 

My friends are sweet. They're dying to see me.