What force is this, to deserve a toast,
That has gone and made us friends?
Or what feeling is it that we host,
That has no concealèd ends.
A toast, to this, a great sensation,
That has rendered us good fools.
Close friends are we, as anyone can see,
That, between us, knows no rules.
To those unknown, and friendly strangers,
To stories of half-construct,
To back alleys, and hidden dangers,
And to those whose mouths were fucked
To memories unforgettable,
To times of celebration,
To decisions most regrettable
In our inebriation
To teary grins, our ensemblèd sins,
To laughter we cannot stop.
To contests where nobody wins,
To partners we’d love to swap.
To our coffees at midday sun,
To toeing 8’s on the ground,
To a seemingly endless fun,
To this friendship we have found.
So to what force is this toast deserved,
That we cannot break free of?
It is that force that sees friends preserved,
That force that we can call love.