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20 kinds of tequila behind the bar,
Marg's by the bucket, stick a straw in and suck it,
No bartender will tell what the ingredients are.
Wastin' away again in Margaritaville,
Searching for South Florida's finest saloon,
Some people claim all margaritas taste the same,
But we found the best at Tequila Cancun.
Don't need no reason; we'll drink here all season,
With nothing to show but these salt-covered lips,
All of us foodies love Cancun's Tex-Mex booty,
Drink up; have some chips and a dozen more sips.
Two-for-one margaritas, with signature fajitas.
Soccer matches play on the satellite TV,
Alberto the owner always comes over,
says, "If you're not happy, the drinks are on me."
"Another one?" asks the pleasant but not-too-talkative bartender named Angie.
A group comes in and orders drinks. The men order something called a cosmopolitan. A pink drink that should be consumed by women, the old man thinks. The women order rum and Coca-Cola. Not the smooth Puerto Rican rum but something called Captain Morgan. A harsh, masculine drink. The old man shakes his head. If the bar were not so clean, he would spit on the floor.
"Another?" asks the bartender.
The old man shakes his head. Nada, he thinks. Now, he will have nada. Two of the bitter mixtures of gin and quinine water ($6.75 for both, at the happy hour rate) are enough. He is sufficiently steeped in gloom. But he will be back. He will return when he senses the necessity of drinking quietly in public during the happy hour.