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He's a wino, tried and true. |
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Done about everything there is to do. |
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He worked on freighters, he worked in bars. |
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He worked on farms, 'n he worked on cars. |
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It was white port, that put that look in his eye |
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That grown men get when they need to cry |
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And he sat down on the curb to rest |
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And his head just fell down on his chest |
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He said "Every single day it gets A little bit harder to handle and yet. . ." |
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And he lost the thread and his mind got cluttered |
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And the words just rolled off down in the gutter |
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Well he was elevator man in a cheap hotel |
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In exchange for the rent on a one room cell |
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He's old in years beyond his time |
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Thanks to the world, and the white |
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Port wine |
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So he says "Son," he always called me son |
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He said, "Life for you has just begun" |
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And he told me a story that |
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I heard before |
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How he fell in love with a |
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Dallas whore |
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Well he could cut through the years to the very night |
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When it ended, in a whore house fight |
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And she turned his last proposal down |
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In favor of being a girl about town |
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Now it's been seventeen years right in line |
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And he ain't been straight none of the time |
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Too many days of fightin' the weather |
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And too many nights of not being together |
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So he died. . . |
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Well when they went through his personal affects |
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In among the stubs from the welfare checks |
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Was a crumblin' picture of a girl in a door |
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An address in |
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Dallas, and nothin' more |
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The welfare people provided the priest |
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A couple from the mission down the street |
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Sang Amazing |
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Grace, and no one cried ' |
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Cept some woman in black, way off to the side |
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We all left and she was standing there |
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Black veil covering her silver hair |
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And 'ol One- |
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Eyed John said her name was |
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Alice And she used to be a whore in |
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Dallas Let him roar, |
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Lord let him roll |
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Bet he's gone to |
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Dallas Rest his soul |
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Lord, let him roll, |
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Lord let him roar |
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He always said that heaven |
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Was just a |
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Dallas whore. |
