Schwarzenegger

wishing he were Schwarzenegger, he quaffs down his last, cold bitter, at nights like this he gets real high smashing bottles, making chairs fly; but, at once, his impulse chills down as he sees the huge bouncer's frown bluntly reminding him about how last night that brute kicked him out into the street like a doormat for no reason other than that he kissed the sweet songstress' chin, thought he could take her for a spin; how her songs spiced up his night life, but then she was the bouncer's wife, now he starts to sway and stagger, wishing he were Schwarzenegger.