While the dwarfs are marching with the giants to the field,
while those watching eat and chatter ’bout the dying day its yield
Quiet talks the serving barman to the old man and his wife
’bout the death of his dear sister and the sorrows of his life.
He wipes the counter, turns the softened sound up for the game
where the children have now left the field to overpaid big names.
And he serves another customer, pours him a bitter beer.
Golden whiskey from a bottle, crystal Vodka, pure and clear.