| Well it’s 9th and Hennepin
|
| And all the donuts have
|
| Names that sound like prostitutes
|
| And the moon’s teeth marks are
|
| On the sky like a tarp thrown over all this
|
| And the broken umbrellas like
|
| Dead birds and the steam
|
| Comes out of the grill like
|
| The whole goddamned town is ready to blow
|
| And the bricks are all scarred with jailhouse tattoos
|
| And everyone is behaving like dogs
|
| And the horses are coming down Violin Road
|
| And Dutch is dead on his feet
|
| And the rooms all smell like diesel
|
| And you take on the
|
| Dreams of the ones who have slept here
|
| And I’m lost in the window
|
| I hide on the stairway
|
| I hang in the curtain
|
| I sleep in your hat
|
| And no one brings anything
|
| Small into a bar around here
|
| They all started out with bad directions
|
| And the girl behind the counter has a tattooed tear
|
| One for every year he’s away she said
|
| Such a crumbling beauty, but there’s
|
| Well, nothing wrong with her that
|
| $ 100 won’t fix
|
| She has that razor sadness
|
| That only gets worse
|
| With the clang and the thunder
|
| Of the Southern Pacific going by
|
| As the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet
|
| Till you’re full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin
|
| And you spill out
|
| Over the side to anyone who’ll listen
|
| And I’ve seen it
|
| All through the yellow windows
|
| Of the evening train |