I was halfway through a set at a dive just off the strip,

Kick drum thumping steady, sweat rolling off my lip,

When a guy in a Tapout shirt yelled, “Play something I know!”

So I hit him with a cymbal and said, “Buddy… this is the show.”

Well, that didn’t go over great.

Next thing I know, it’s barstools flying like a bad idea,

My guitarist’s using feedback like a weapon of mass hysteria,

The bass player vanished… probably wise, probably sober,

Meanwhile I’m trading left hooks like it’s fight night in October.

Somebody spilled a drink, somebody screamed “blasphemy!”

I might’ve said a thing or two about organized theology,

Took a jab at a preacher and his gold-plated throne,

Said, “If heaven’s that exclusive, I’ll just party on my own.”

Then things got… experimental.

Someone passed me something that looked like mould in a bag,

I said, “Sure, why not?” which is never a good flag,

Next thing I know, the walls are breathing, time’s doing flips,

I’m convinced my hi-hat’s giving me relationship tips.

Cops showed up, lights flashing, real buzzkill energy,

I’m still trying to finish the chorus in 7/8 time, musically,

Bartender’s yelling, “You’re banned!” like I’ll remember the place,

I’m just trying to locate my snare… or my face.

But yeah… none of that happened.

I’m just joking. No fights, no drugs, no theological war zone.

I played my set, packed my gear, kept it mostly chill and toned.

And right now, I’m just cruising, watching the highway unwind,

Heading back to Lake Cowichan, leaving Alberta behind.

No bar fights. No chaos. No divine intervention required.

Just a drummer heading home… slightly weird, mildly tired. 🤘