text: Goodness, gracious. Our bass player should be chained up somewhere. Mongrel, canine, growling. I want to take you on kind of an inebriational travelogue here. Yeah, you aint got no spare, you aint got no jack, you dont give a shit, you aint never coming back. Maybe youre standing on the corner of 17th and Wazee Streets. Out in front of the terminal bar, theres a Thunderbird moon in a muscatel sky. Youve been drinking cleaning products all night. Open for suggestions. Kind of about, well, its kind of about going down to the corner, saying, Well, Im just going down to the corner to get a pack of cigarettes, Ill be back in a minute.
  Yeah, you check out the street and it looks like theres kind of a
  Kind of a blur drizzle down the plate glass
  And as a neon swizzle stick is stirring up the sultry night air
  Looks like a yellow biscuit of a buttery cue ball moon
  Rolling maverick across an obsidian sky
  And as the buses go groaning and wheezing
  Down on the corner, Im freezing
  On a restless boulevard at a midnight road
  Im across town from Easy Street
  With the tight knots of moviegoers and out-of-towners on the stroll
  The buildings towering high above lit like dominoes or black dice
  Used car salesmen dressed up in Purina checkerboard slacks
  And Foster Grant wraparounds
  Pacing in front of Rainbow, Earl Scheib, $39.95 merchandise
  Like barkers at a shooting gallery
  They throw out a Texas Guinan routine:
  Hello sucker, we like your money
  Just as well as anybody elses here
  Come on over here now...
  Let me put the cut back in your strut
  And the glide back in your stride
  Now climb aboard a custom Oldsmobile
  Let me take you for a ride
  Or they give you that P. T. Barnum bit:
  Theres a sucker born every minute!
  You just happened to be coming along at the right time, you know
  Come over here
  And you know, all the harlequin sailors are on the stroll
  In search of like new new paint
  And decent factory air and AM/FM dreams
  Yeah, and all the piss yellow gypsy cabs
  Theyre stacked up in the taxi zones
  And theyre waiting like pinball machines
  To be ticking off a joyride to a magical place
  Like Truckers Welcome diners
  With dirt lots full of Peterbilts and Kenworths and Jimmies and the like
  Theyre hi-balling with bankrupt brakes
  Man, theyre overdriven and theyre underpaid
  Theyre overfed and theyre a day late and a dollar short
  But Christ, I got my lips around a bottle
  And I got my foot on the throttle and Im standing on the corner
  Standing on the corner like a just got-in-town Jasper
  Im on a street corner with a gasper
  Looking for some kind of a Cheshire billboard grin
  Stroking a goateed chin
  Using parking meters as walking sticks on the inebriated stroll
  With my eyelids propped open at half mast
  But you know, over at Chubbs Pool and Snooker
  Well, it was a nickel after two, yeah, it was a nickel after two
  And in the cobalt steel blue dream smoke
  Why, it was the radio that groaned out the hit parade
  And the chalk squeaked and the floorboards creaked
  And an Olympia sign winked through a torn yellow shade
  Old Jack Chance himself leaning up against a Wurlitzer
  Man, he was eyeballing out a five-ball combination shot
  Impossible you say? Hard to believe?
  Perhaps out of the realm of possibility?
  Naaaah
  Cause he be stretching out long tawny fingers
  Out across a cool green felt in a provocative golden gate
  He got a full table railshot thats no sweat
  And I leaned up against my banister
  I wandered over to the Wurlitzer and I punched A2
  I was looking for maybe Wine Wine Wine by the Nightcaps
  Starring Chuck E. Weiss
  Or maybe... maybe a little something called High Blood Pressure
  By George Perkins, no dice
  Cause thats life, thats what all the people say
  Youre riding high in April
  Youre seriously shot down in May
  I know Im gonna change that tune
  When Im standing underneath a buttery moon
  Thats all melted off to one side
  Parkay
  It was just about that time that the sun came crawling yellow
  Out of a manhole at the foot of 23rd Street
  And a Dracula moon in a black disguise
  Was making its way back to its pre-paid room at the St. Moritz Hotel
  And the El train tumbled across the trestles
  And it sounded like the ghost of Gene Krupa
  With an overhead cam and glass packs
  And the whispering brushes of wet radials on wet pavement
  Shhhhhhhhhhhhh
  With a traffic jam session on Belmont tonight
  And the rhapsody of the pending evening
  I leaned up against my banister
  And Ive been looking for some kind of an emotional investment
  With romantic dividends
  Yeah, kind of a physical negotiation is underway
  As I attempt to consolidate all my missed weekly rendezvous
  Into one low monthly payment, through the nose
  With romantic residuals and legs akimbo
  But the chances are that more than likely
  Standing underneath a moon holding water
  Ill probably be held over for another
  Smashed weekend
  Thank you