| A corner dive down on the square
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| Where the windows hang with a neon flare
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| Regulars shoot horse and pool
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| While the barmaid wishes the place half full
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| She works the jar with a discount flirt
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| With a faded Houston Oilers shirt
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| While an old crow sings down on the stage
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| Thumbing the chords on a crinkled page
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| He plays his Zevon tune
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| Beneath the gulf moon
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| Take a walk down along the wall
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| You’ll go right on past the carnival
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| Hand in hand with the keeper kind
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| The kind that ties to the ties that bind
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| They don’t care for the carnie man
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| Or the fortune teller that reads your hand
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| They just beeline for a bungalow
|
| Where the curtains flutter
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| And candles glow in the heart of June
|
| Beneath the gulf moon
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| Here I’m on a midnight porch
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| Looking up at a butane torch
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| That hangs behind a black expanse
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| Where the stars flicker and planets dance
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| It is probably time I pack it in
|
| With a glass half-full of Jameson
|
| Well I was born to croon
|
| I might as well
|
| Beneath the gulf moon
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| Down by the jetty near the Balinese Pier
|
| The curmudgeons drink the yellow belly beer
|
| And they bitch about the price of gas
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| And the fish that they can’t seem to catch
|
| They blame it on the islands way down south
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| From the bayou marsh and the delta mouth
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| Where the choppers are rollin and tankers come
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| In the midnight daze for the oil drum
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| They can’t leave too soon
|
| Beneath the gulf moon |