| Roy rode into Houston
|
| On the fifteenth of July
|
| They’d brought him in to help clean up the town
|
| He worked the Exxon building
|
| Down on 21st and Main
|
| From the 42nd floor down to the ground
|
| He worked without a scaffold
|
| And he always worked alone
|
| And everybody knew he was the best
|
| People’d come from miles around
|
| And stand down in the street
|
| To watch the Fastest Squeegee in the West
|
| Window-washing cowboy
|
| Make ‘em shiny clean
|
| Windex and a squeegee in your hand
|
| You’ll never find another love like your sweet Marie
|
| From Abilene down to the Rio Grande
|
| Roy saw her there one morning
|
| On the 37th floor
|
| The nameplate on her desk just said «Marie»
|
| He made sure he was cleaning
|
| The second window from the right
|
| Every Thursday at precisely 10: 03
|
| He’d tap the glass and wave
|
| And she’d look up and give a smile
|
| Each time she did, his heart would swell with pride
|
| And even though they’d never spoken once
|
| Roy vowed to Heaven
|
| That one day he’d make that sweet Marie his bride
|
| It took him months, but Roy
|
| Worked up the nerve to bare his soul
|
| So up he went to ask her for her hand
|
| And when he reached the window
|
| There she was: his sweet Marie
|
| Wrapped in the arms of the carpet-cleaning man
|
| He hung there for a moment
|
| As his poor heart broke in two
|
| And all his hopes and dreams came crashing down
|
| Then Roy unhitched his safety line
|
| And, with a mournful cry
|
| He raced his final teardrops to the ground
|
| And so there ends the tragic tale
|
| Of squeegee-slingin' Roy:
|
| A lonely soul who loved and died in vain
|
| He left his mark on Main Street
|
| And no matter how they tried
|
| They couldn’t scrub away that cowboy-colored stain
|
| On Thursdays, people say
|
| You still can see him up above
|
| And the echoes of his final cry remain
|
| And to this day, they tell the tale
|
| Of the window-washing cowboy
|
| He loved windows, but he couldn’t stand the pain… |