Verse 1 The salt-shaker's clogged with the late-August damp Under the buzz of a fly-specked lamp And the hash-slinger’s coughing up an old butcher's tune To a couple of dreamers in the corner saloon You got a hole in your pocket where the lucky piece slept And a calendar of promises nobody kept While the grease-paint is peeling from the marquee next door Spilling fake silver dollars all over the floor. Verse 2 Now, Left-Handed Louis is working the till With a pencil-stub tucked in his ear like a quill He’s watching the streetlights go yellowish-green Like a bad piece of film in a faulty machine And the night-shift mechanics are shedding their coats Trading their grease for a handful of notes Leaving nothing but thumbprints and an old plastic comb For the late-night collection that's walking them home. Chorus And you’re riding a blind horse through a neighborhood fire With your coat on a nail and your boot on a wire Yeah, you’re buying the house-blend from a blind-folded clerk Who can’t tell the gospel from a hard day of work And the saxophone’s wheezing like a flat-chested mule On a corner they named for a beautiful fool. And you’re riding a blind horse through a neighborhood fire With your coat on a nail and your boot on a wire Yeah, you’re buying the house-blend from a blind-folded clerk Who can’t tell the gospel from a hard day of work And the saxophone’s wheezing like a flat-chested mule On a corner they named for a beautiful fool. Verse 3 There’s an old '62 Falcon bleeding out on the curb With a muffler that's choking on a dead willow herb And a postcard from Reno that you never did mail Buried deep in the lining of a canvas-back sail It says, "Babe, the luck's changing, the tables are hot" But you know that the dealer took everything you got And the ink is all smeared by a grease-pencil stroke And the future is nothing but a mouth full of smoke. Verse 4 [The tempo drops back to a heavy, dragging pulse. Just the woody thud of the bass and a lone piano cluster] So pull down the blinds, let the shadows take wing Before the early-bird specials start making things ring The garbage-trucks rumble down the alleyway track Like a herd of iron elephants that ain't turning back And you slide down the vinyl of a high-backed booth And you settle for a lie that sounds a little like truth. Chorus And you’re riding a blind horse through a neighborhood fire With your coat on a nail and your boot on a wire Yeah, you’re buying the house-blend from a blind-folded clerk Who can’t tell the gospel from a hard day of work And the saxophone’s wheezing like a flat-chested mule On a corner they named for a beautiful fool. And you’re riding a blind horse through a neighborhood fire With your coat on a nail and your boot on a wire Yeah, you’re buying the house-blend from a blind-folded clerk Who can’t tell the gospel from a hard day of work And the saxophone’s wheezing like a flat-chested mule On a corner they named for a beautiful fool. Outro Yeah, for a beautiful fool... With a hole in your shoe. And a glass full of rain. Just another coat of varnish on a coffin-lid dream. [A sharp, percussive intake of breath, followed by the heavy clunk of a ceramic mug on wood and the low, vanishing groan of a trombone slide]
