You're the best of singers with whiskey and wine You play your part to perfection They wake you up and tell you it's time for bed But there is no question of letting this run any more The cigarette's burning your fingers There's too much wine on the floor And more, and more, and more You're the best, the worst, the best You've made a great art of wasting your time You're the national treasure for madness But birds who sing without leaving their trees Are prone to delusional grandness Don't let this run any more Come down from your branch while you're able There's too much blood on the floor And more, and more, and more You're the best, the worst, the best Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up You're the best, the worst, the best You're the best, the worst, the worst at the best of times