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
|
Nothing wrong with her that
|
$100 won't fix, she has that razor sadness
|
That only gets worse
|
With the clang and 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.
|
|
-----------------
|
9th & Hennepin
|
| Tom Waits |
