(Intro) (A crisp, shuffling brush rhythm sets the pace. The upright bass walks a steady line, joined by a honky-tonk piano hitting chords that sound like a menu being slapped onto a counter. A harmonica wails once, low and blue, like a distant train whistle.) (Verse) The sign in the window is buzzing like a hornet in a jar The cook’s throwing bacon at a cold, iron bar The sun hasn't made it past the tenements yet But the coffee’s already boiling, a black, bitter threat I’m pulling up a stool, the vinyl’s cracked and torn Right next to the ghosts of the night that was born. (Pre-Chorus) The waitress is counting her tips in the dark She’s got a heart that’s waiting for a flicker or a spark She says, “Life’s a short order, honey, don’t make it wait” And she slides a blue plate right across the slate. (Chorus) It’s coffee and cold steel, and the morning’s blue light We’re patching up the bruises from the middle of the night You gotta swallow the grit if you want the day to start There’s a million ways to feed a hungry, lonely heart Yeah, in the diner of the damned, where the saints go to eat We’re just surviving on the rhythm of the street. (Verse) The guy in the corner is reading the obituary page He’s looking for his friends who finally left the cage He’s got a hat pulled low, and a cigarette that’s dead Just a constellation of static inside of his head The register dings like a funeral bell And we’re all buying tickets for a local kind of hell. (Pre-Chorus) The waitress is wiping the grease from the rim She’s humming a hymn for the morning and him She says, “Keep your head down, don't look at the door” Then she mops up the secrets on the checkered floor. (Chorus) It’s coffee and cold steel, and the morning’s blue light We’re patching up the bruises from the middle of the night You gotta swallow the grit if you want the day to start There’s a million ways to feed a hungry, lonely heart Yeah, in the diner of the damned, where the saints go to eat We’re just surviving on the rhythm of the street. (Bridge) (Saxophone takes a gritty, jagged solo—low and mournful, mimicking the sounds of city traffic. The harmonica weaves in and out, aggressive and sharp.) The factory whistle is screaming like a ghost We’re all just commuters from coast to coast But the toast is burnt and the butter is thin And the world keeps turning, let the next shift in. (Verse) I leave a dime on the counter, I tip my hat to the steam Walking out into the morning, back into the dream The concrete is hard, but it’s solid beneath my feet And the city’s got a rhythm, a heavy, syncopated beat I’m a working-class prophet with a hole in my shoe Just looking for a reason to make it all brand new. (Pre-Chorus) The waitress watches me walk through the glass She sees the shadow of the man who finally let it pass She says, “See you tomorrow, don't go getting lost” But she’s just counting up the final cost. (Chorus) It’s coffee and cold steel, and the morning’s blue light We’re patching up the bruises from the middle of the night You gotta swallow the grit if you want the day to start There’s a million ways to feed a hungry, lonely heart Yeah, in the diner of the damned, where the saints go to eat We’re just surviving on the rhythm of the street. (Outro) (Piano slows to a rhythmic, pulsing shuffle. The brushwork fades into a steady, quiet hiss. The bass holds the final note, resonant and deep.) Just black coffee. And cold, cold steel. Watch the wheels spin. Yeah. Just watch the wheels spin. (A final, soft clink of a coffee cup hitting a saucer.)
