St. Stephen's Day

I stumbled into Merrion tow to listen to a tune.
I fought my way down Grafton by the rising of the moon.
I sat on the floor of my poxy room just me and the BBC eating
bachelor's beans out of the tin, there's nothing here for me.
And a rovin' you will go.
You are not the one she wants.
You are just a ghost from an evening haunt and a rovin' you will go.
And you wish that she would stay for now
your day is empty and it's just another day.
I put my pen to paper but there's nothing to be said.
I might as well be in the desert with a turban on my head.
I could go to Trader John's or I could shower and could shave.
I could go on up to Wicklow and throw a rose on Ronnie's grave.
I drank until my bones shook and gathered all my pay.
I stood outside the locked up bar along the bachelor's quay.
I had absolutely forgotten that it was Christmas day and
now there's nothing open and there's nothing left to say.
And it's only Christmas day.
And it's just St.
Stephen's day.