| A train sounds off, whistle blowing
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| Lighthouse horn’s early warning
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| Clean cool air with stars out shining
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| Overcoat and whiskey drinking
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| Hands locked tight and close together
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| These nights are bliss in drunken leisure
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| Spitting air in gusts as it gets cooler
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| Sparse clouds try to come together
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| You feel the chill and bid farewell as you start leaving
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| Sounds like an evening
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| The cars thin out on empty streets
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| No traffic jams to make you weak
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| Shopkeepers leave, at home they speak
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| Of good patrons and of cash and thieves
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| The wind is gaining ground on you
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| The air turns damp with the seaside dew
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| But it don’t lie, it tells the truth
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| And all is well and all is new
|
| You feel the chill and bid farewell as you start leaving
|
| Sounds like an evening
|
| Your west side is a teenage waiting
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| Los Angeles a childhood haze
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| Like steps to nowhere you sit there gazing
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| At friends you’ve lost through years of forgetting
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| Time sells you short of all you’re wanting
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| Though you don’t know just what you’re seeking
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| Except winter nights and cigarettes
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| And boozing with the best of them
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| You feel the chill and bid farewell as you start leaving
|
| Sounds like an evening |