I Deserve A Medal, Not An Eighty-Six There once was a fine musician Who'd sit in the Ginger Man He'd drink in the good old tradition, Served by Jackie or Johnnie or Dan; But one day a new maitre d' came, Pronounced him a filthy thief; Now he stands outside the door As the rain begins to pour And tells this tale of grief: "I deserve a medal, not an eighty-six, Can't you see that I'm forlorn? When I was young and carefree with your crowd I'd mix, But now I rue the day that I was born. Well I look in my mailbox every day for a letter saying 'please come back to stay', But all I hear ringing in my ear is "you filthy thief, just keep away from here!" "I deserve a medal, not an eighty-six, My patience is all worn, So please give me my medal and take back your eighty-six, And tell me no more to mourn." Empires have risen and fallen Oft since that fatal day, But the ghost of our friend keeps a-callin', Though his poor soul has long passed away. But as the evening is falling And parlor lamps 'gin to glow low, Our woeful troubadour Will sing his song once more, And pine for the sweet long-ago: "I deserve a medal, not an eighty-six, Can't you see that I'm forlorn? When I was young and carefree with your crowd I'd mix, But now I rue the day that I was born. While I know that it's true I'm not the one you harm (You've given Roast Beef and Brew a big shot in the arm) Still all I see as destiny are those two little numbers haunting me. I deserve a medal, not an eighty-six, My patience is all worn, So please give me my medal and take back your eighty-six, And tell me no more to mourn." Lyrics and Music by Alan Seidler ©1974 by Simian Press, A Div. of Ook Ook Productions, Inc.