Acetylene Inn
(it’s a gas!)

Hadn’t hardly had time to get settled in
at a old honky-tonk the Acetylene Inn
in the Oxygen Bar with a Nitro Gin
and another cowpoke named Mickey Finn.

Now Mick was a-wearin’ tennis shoes
instead of boots but he refused
to explain to me how come the change
(like socks on a rooster, looked mighty strange).

But T-bones was cookin’ on the propane grill
and life seemed mighty good until
a slam of the door and who walked in
but Minnie Sparks with a nasty grin
and a bone to pick with poor ol’ Mick
(who suddenly looked a little sick).

She slammed his boots down on the table
and spoke some words that I’m unable
to repeat without embarrass-ment.
(That woman shore was discontent).

Then things went from bad to worse
she whacked him with a big-ass purse
and in that purse was a .45
all cocked and loaded and man alive!
that thing went off and ricocheted
off the propane valve like a hand grenade.

That ricochet, it made a spark
before pluggin’ some bottles of Maker’s Mark
and Nitro Gin (one-eighty proof)
that exploded with a fart-like POOF!
while the propane tank shot out a flame
like the jet exhaust from a fighter plane.

I was not inclined to share the blame
so I bailed out a window and ran like hell
while bottles was explodin’ like shotgun shells.

A con-flag-ration was unfoldin’
when Mick ran out! He was proudly holdin’
his boots, two steaks, and a bottle of booze,
sat down on a rock and yanked off them shoes
so we ate and we drank ‘til things started to spin
and watched the demise of the Acetylene Inn.
A-men.