| Hustlers, whores, in rooms galore
|
| A sinking city’s stink
|
| An arc of bar, a flesh bazaar
|
| Of diamonds, dust, and drink
|
| The jukebox jamming, the lions lamming
|
| The jokers doing the dealing
|
| And queens are over jacks
|
| Remember that or catch a beating
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| The night had come into her own
|
| And I made the arc of bar my home
|
| Beneath my clothes, just a bag of bones
|
| Under my skin, just skeletons
|
| I was rolling like a pair of dice
|
| With one for laws and one for lies
|
| But all this, I tried to hide
|
| Behind a glaze of sweat and fire
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| To some, a mistress
|
| To some, a muse
|
| Something soft for something blue
|
| She sauced my needs out of my dreams
|
| And baptized me in flesh that seeds
|
| And then she lay me like a baby
|
| On a bed of Spanish moss
|
| And for her love, I would help the devil
|
| To steal Christ right off the cross
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| I lay blame on the arc of bar
|
| And the hundred proof in me
|
| But the arc, it blames the air
|
| Hundred percent humidity
|
| Well at least those damned mosquitos
|
| That fall flounder to the flood
|
| Get a thimble full of whiskey with their paltry pint of blood
|
| My blood
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| This port of call
|
| It ain’t no port at all
|
| The cap, my cup, and anchors up
|
| The jokers, they tease another hand
|
| But they’re out of luck 'cause I’m out of town
|
| And the sun is like an omen
|
| Goading me toward the gospel
|
| But I got no plans at all
|
| Except to drink as soon as possible
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Some men offer confession
|
| For their souls and grace of God
|
| For others women, women are for mercy
|
| And mosquitos they’re abuzz
|
| Yeah, some men offer confession
|
| For their souls and grace of God
|
| For others women, women are for mercy
|
| And mosquitos they’re abuzz
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah
|
| Yeah |