To be sung a cappella, with minimum 10 air guitarists

He was piss drunk and wicked

Boy could he shit big

Oh, that Chris.

He's dancin' again

He's my inventive friend,

Oh, that Chris.

He slept on the kitchen floor!

(only at school, a bore)

Oh, that Chris.

(He once bought me a shot, and wouldn't shut up, and drank the beer he bought me, then slipped me the tongue, walked all the way from Rogers Park to get home to West Town, only smiles and frowns, punched me in the gut, smoked weed and still wouldn't shut up, saw every local band in Chicago, jumped off every stage, sold over 100 art pieces lifetime, loved his family even though he stated that they hated him, Loved his friends, Loved his cab drivers even more, Loved the beach, and could tell you where his favorite places to eat a burrito were for at least 45 minutes of conversation)

Oh,      that,    Chris.

Ask him his favorite Artist, and he would never tell you.

Oh, that, Chris.

C. M. R.