Warm Beer and Cold Cold Iron

Smoky jazz blues, dark lounge, low-fi blues

[Chorus]
And the asphalt is steaming like a kettle of tea
Under a sky that’s as blind as a jury can be
Yeah, you’re looking for a savior with a five-card spread
But you’re sleeping on a mattress made of cold, cold lead
And the piano is listing like a house in the rain
Drowning out the rumble of the inbound train.

[Verse 2]
Now, Sugar-Lip Sally is counting her tips
With a mouthful of Muriels between her red lips
She’s checking her compact for a face she once knew
Before the rent went to forty and the liquor turned blue
And the harbor-boat pilots are shedding their boots
By the pay-toilet door where the water-pipe shoots
Leaving nothing but mud-tracks and a dead-ended cigar
To be swept up tomorrow by the boy at the bar.

[Verse 3]
There’s a three-legged dog by the kerosene tank
Waiting on a bone from the clerk at the bank
And a pawn-ticket crumpled in a cellophane wrap
For an old silver watch that you dropped in her lap
It says, "Good for ten dollars till the end of the spring"
But the spring’s been and gone and didn't leave a damn thing
And the ink is all smeared by the sweat of your thumb
And you’re humming a hymn to a blind-alley bum.

[Verse 4]
[The tempo drops back to a sluggish crawl. Just the deep, woody thrum of the bass and an erratic piano chord]
So pull down your fedora, let the collar take the slack
Before the morning-shift milkmen start double-parking in the back
The tugboats are choking out on the salt-flats tonight
Like a couple of winos looking for a match or a light
And you slide down the vinyl of a high-backed booth
And look for a lie that sounds a little like the truth.

[Outro]
Yeah, a little like the truth...
With a hole in your sock.
And a glass full of rain.
Just another Saturday night on the wrong side of the tracks.
[The saxophone lets out a breathy, dying sigh; a heavy ceramic coffee mug clinks hard against the counter, followed by the hiss of steam from an espresso machine]

3307/7500

[Verse 1] The window-pane’s rattling with a bronchial wheeze In a diner that smells like tobacco and cheese And the clock on the wall has been stuck at eleven Since the day that they blew up the warehouse in Queens You got a pocket-knife rusted right into the case And a postcard of Denver you used to erase While the grease-trap is singing a sour little tune To a grease-monkey sleeping under a hubcap moon. [Chorus] And the asphalt is steaming like a kettle of tea Under a sky that’s as blind as a jury can be Yeah, you’re looking for a savior with a five-card spread But you’re sleeping on a mattress made of cold, cold lead And the piano is listing like a house in the rain Drowning out the rumble of the inbound train. [Verse 2] Now, Sugar-Lip Sally is counting her tips With a mouthful of Muriels between her red lips She’s checking her compact for a face she once knew Before the rent went to forty and the liquor turned blue And the harbor-boat pilots are shedding their boots By the pay-toilet door where the water-pipe shoots Leaving nothing but mud-tracks and a dead-ended cigar To be swept up tomorrow by the boy at the bar. [Chorus] And the asphalt is steaming like a kettle of tea Under a sky that’s as blind as a jury can be Yeah, you’re looking for a savior with a five-card spread But you’re sleeping on a mattress made of cold, cold lead And the piano is listing like a house in the rain Drowning out the rumble of the inbound train. [Verse 3] There’s a three-legged dog by the kerosene tank Waiting on a bone from the clerk at the bank And a pawn-ticket crumpled in a cellophane wrap For an old silver watch that you dropped in her lap It says, "Good for ten dollars till the end of the spring" But the spring’s been and gone and didn't leave a damn thing And the ink is all smeared by the sweat of your thumb And you’re humming a hymn to a blind-alley bum. [Chorus] And the asphalt is steaming like a kettle of tea Under a sky that’s as blind as a jury can be Yeah, you’re looking for a savior with a five-card spread But you’re sleeping on a mattress made of cold, cold lead And the piano is listing like a house in the rain Drowning out the rumble of the inbound train [Verse 4] [The tempo drops back to a sluggish crawl. Just the deep, woody thrum of the bass and an erratic piano chord] So pull down your fedora, let the collar take the slack Before the morning-shift milkmen start double-parking in the back The tugboats are choking out on the salt-flats tonight Like a couple of winos looking for a match or a light And you slide down the vinyl of a high-backed booth And look for a lie that sounds a little like the truth. [Chorus] And the asphalt is steaming like a kettle of tea Under a sky that’s as blind as a jury can be Yeah, you’re looking for a savior with a five-card spread But you’re sleeping on a mattress made of cold, cold lead And the piano is listing like a house in the rain Drowning out the rumble of the inbound train. [Outro] Yeah, a little like the truth... With a hole in your sock. And a glass full of rain. Just another Saturday night on the wrong side of the tracks. [The saxophone lets out a breathy, dying sigh; a heavy ceramic coffee mug clinks hard against the counter, followed by the hiss of steam from an espresso machine]

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