T'was quater past seven when Marty McCloone
strode through the doors of The Last Chance Saloon.
Two Colt forty fives were stuck in his belt,
that held up his loin cloth of tanned beaver pelt.
One gold tooth protruded from his upper lip
as he stood there a grinn'in, one hand on his hip.

" Well howdy there Marty ! What brings you to town?
asked the bartenders wife in her fine ev'nin' gown."
" Been workin' my trap line for nigh on a year,
got a hank'rin " he said " Fer a barrel 'a' beer.
Just place it up there on the end of the bar.
Once I've drained it I don't think I'll walk very far."

The patrons all laughed as he uncorked the bung,
and up to his shoulder that barrel he swung.
He swallowed that brew 'til the barrel drained dry,
then ordered one ounce of Canadian Rye.
After drinkin' the chaser, couldn't drink anymore.
his eyes slowly closed,he passed out on the floor.

They covered him up with a buffalo hide
and left him there snorin' curled up on his side.
For nearly three days he lay there asleep,
then on the fourth day he jumped back to his feet.
As he the waved a solong, he said " I'm outa here!
Thanks fer the drink,I'll see ya next year!"