Rye Tear

Here it's cold. 
Real cold. 
Snow, ice, and cold. 
Long boring days turning into nights, 
With shot glasses of tears at my side. 
Cry me a river? 
No, cry me a bottle of rye. 
So I can drink the bitter tears, 
And let them taste like poison. 
It's cool to be a jerk, 
Nothing we all haven't done. 
Just being what I've been told to do, 
Since the moment I was born.
I hate me as much as you do.
But you can't change how the wind blows.
Can't save a man like me from Hell.
Keep yourself back.
So you don't join me.
And if you cry...
Send me a shot glass.