French fried shoe strings
|
on a drunken cellar door.
|
If these walls could talk,
|
I'd listen to the floor.
|
|
The bar stools proppin' up
|
a twenty dollar whore,
|
recantin' recitations from
|
a lonesome tale of yore
|
|
for a while...
|
At the Starlight Lounge...
|
At the Starlight Lounge...
|
|
I see a place where something's
|
happened every day for twenty years,
|
and the people think it's special
|
'cause they drown in their beers.
|
|
The special on the menu
|
is the balls of a steer.
|
This is only one place
|
to escape from your fears
|
|
for a while...
|
At the Starlight Lounge...
|
The Starlight Lounge...
|
|
Yeah, the Starlight Lounge
|
is a happy little place.
|
A really fun place where
|
you can lose your face.
|
|
And all of my friends
|
including me are insane.
|
It's a little hide-a-way
|
to hide away from the pain.
|
|
yeah!
|
|
And if my friends,
|
were by my side.
|
They still couldn't see,
|
couldn't see inside.
|
|
The bartender just
|
lets my tab slide.
|
Who's takin' who here
|
for a ride
|
|
for a while...
|
At the Starlight Lounge...
|
The Starlight Lounge...
|
|
At the Starlight Lounge...
|
The Starlight Lounge...
|
|
-----------------
|
Starlight Lounge
|
| Reverend Horton Heat |
