Oh the whiskey is floating, won’t stay in me glass,
I’m weightless and spinning and drunk off me ass.
Oh the whiskey is floating in a sphere o’er me head.
If we don’t clear this wormhole we’ll surely be dead.

So reach for the whiskey, boys, reach for the stars.
They won’t stop us drinking on Venus or Mars.
So reach for the whiskey, boys, reach for the sky.
For the vacuum of space sucks the bottles all dry.

Oh infinite booty awaits us in space
We’ll pillage and plunder with fervor and grace.
That’s what my astronomical unit is for.
We’ll party where no one has partied before.

Alone in the cockpit I gaze at the stars,
I drink and I think of my home (He thinks of his home) (I think of my home).
Our thrusters are the hottest that you’ve ever felt;
They might just unbuckle your asteroid belt.
We’re honing our moonwalking skills as we speak.
We’ll dance on Uranus by this time next week.