Well, I call you up on the phone, nobody's at home.
Then I do my usual thing: I let the telephone ring and
ring and ring.
I'm standing at a phone booth, coping with the ugly
truth.
You see, I know where you are... I know where you are.
You're down drinking at the bar.
I can picture you there on that stool, drinking like a
drunken fool.
Yeah, you're sitting there on your ass, muttering into
your glass.
Paying for your lowlife thrills with wet quarters and
soggy one dollar bills.
I know where you are,
I know where you are,
You're down drinking at the bar.
Now here's the romantic part
Dean Martin's on the jukebox, I bet.
Or maybe it's Tammy Wynette.
The tearjerkers are jerking your tears.
Salt water in your beer.
You've got the Miller High Life bouncing balls.
You've got the Utica Club waterfalls.
I know, you know too
I know where you are
You're down drinking at the bar,
Oh, oh
Go ahead get drunk, it's alright.
Lost weekend on a Tuesday night.
But I'm going to have to give you the score:
I'm not going to call you up on the telephone no more.
I'm sick and tired of listening to that phone ring 15
times.
I'm sick and tired of getting back my dimes!
Because I know what you are.
You're a sot, that's what you are.
I know what you are.
You're a lush, that's what you are
I know where you are
I know where you are
You're down drinking at the bar
