[Verse 1] The awning is leaking like an old rusty pipe On a block where the trouble is heavy and ripe And the barber-shop pole is just turning its thread Like a bad piece of gossip that refuses to bed You got a line on a horse that died Tuesday at noon And a clock that is ticking a half-hour too soon While the grease from the bakery on Christopher Street Is turning to frost on the soles of your feet. [Verse 2] Now, One-Eyed Philomena is cutting her deck With a rhinestone cross hanging low on her neck She’s looking for diamonds but drawing the spade In the shade of a promise that the landlord just made And the late-shift dispatchers are washing their hands Of the grease and the oil from the ambulance vans Leaving nothing but shadows and a stray bowling pin Where the gravel ends and the dockyards begin. [Chorus] And the avenue’s choking on a wet, heavy exhaust Counting up the nickels that you already lost Yeah, you’re looking for a gospel in a comic-book store But they don’t print that kind of relief anymore And the piano is leaning like a drunk on a rail Drowning out the whistle of the overnight mail. [Verse 3] There’s a broken umbrella in the telephone booth Where the high-schoolers go when they're looking for truth And a scrap of a letter from a town called Moline Stuck under the tread of a cigarette machine It says, "Pack up your trousers, get out of the cold Before the remainder of your youth is all sold" But the pencil was soft and the paper is torn And you can’t find the station where the locals are born. [Bridge] [The snare picks up a ragged, shuffling skip; the sax spits out a short, jagged phrase] Oh, the fire-escape jury is calling the case With a bottle of port and a smirk on their face And the ice in the bucket makes a skeleton chime As the clock on the warehouse is running out of time You’re hocking your mattress to pay for the room Just to watch the sun rise like a yellow balloon... [Verse 4] [The tempo drops back to a heavy, sluggish crawl. Only the woody thump of the bass and a single piano note] So button your waistcoat, turn your face to the wall Before the first morning-shift garbage trucks crawl The tugboats are moaning out on the canal Like an old tired sailor who’s lost his last gal And you slide down the steps of a basement cafe And let the dampness just carry the evening away. [Chorus] And the avenue’s choking on a wet, heavy exhaust Counting up the nickels that you already lost Yeah, you’re looking for a gospel in a comic-book store But they don’t print that kind of relief anymore And the piano is leaning like a drunk on a rail Drowning out the whistle of the overnight mail. And the avenue’s choking on a wet, heavy exhaust Counting up the nickels that you already lost Yeah, you’re looking for a gospel in a comic-book store But they don’t print that kind of relief anymore And the piano is leaning like a drunk on a rail Drowning out the whistle of the overnight mail. [Outro] Yeah, carry the evening away... With a hole in your hat. And a glass full of rain. Just another flat tire on a carousel horse. [A sharp, percussive click of a tongue, followed by the metallic clunk of a heavy deadbolt sliding into place]
