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he's got a mean streak that's 2 miles wide |
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a wicked widow's peak that his lost hat won't hide |
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has some family round here well aware of his leathery pride |
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lives down by the racetrack so he knows the inside |
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he's not a bad joe, just talk to the girl that used to know |
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she was a waitress for a while, 'til the clubhouse changed her style |
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she went from small town looker |
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to dressing like a myopic optimistic hooker |
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well adorned with accessory |
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like the back hand of benny the booker |
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oh conformity, saint conformity |
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won't you come down here |
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and clutter up her form for me |
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if l live my life in routine would you make the meantime |
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a little less mean |
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it's a watermark, this thing you settled for |
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corrosive material, this thing you settled for |
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it's an endless ache, a heart attack and an earthquake |
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all of this and more, or less, this thing you settled for |
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his tongue has the bite, 'til he pickles it just right |
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his brain took the train, which left his heart out in the rain |
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his manner is neglect, any of your help is only suspect |
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his memory is stuck in slo-mo rewind of how her eyes used to shine |
