It is five oclock somewhere
it is five o’clock somewhere said the blue parrot staring at me
I had accidentally looked up on my way to the Indian Sea
Pardon, I said, asking him if he was talking to me or whoever
I’m not talking to the rain, the clouds or this horrible weather.
He was a snippy one, this parrot with feathers of blue
Slurring his words a bit, I noted, and staring me through.
Come up here and have some rum if you’re not chicken said the bird.
I climbed the tree and had a drink, which may have been a bit absurd.
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